


Catalyst Client

by Prospero



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Humor, Mystery, Psychological Trauma, Sarcasm, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-16
Updated: 2011-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-19 11:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prospero/pseuds/Prospero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What kind of criminal robs a bridal shop? Watson struggles with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder from his time in Afghanistan as he and Holmes investigate vandalism, murder, and a strange, impish client. Cautiously rated for violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fraying Edges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Watson has a secret, Holmes is annoyed by weddings, and Mrs. Hudson is dismayed by the dismantling of a wringer washer.

**_Catalyst_ ** _(noun): 1. A substance that increases the rate of a chemical reaction. 2. A person or thing that precipitates an event._

  **A Reprint from the Reminiscences of Dr. John H. Watson, M.D.**

As I look back over my accounts of my friend Sherlock Holmes and myself, I realize that I have given the impression that he was essentially a solitary being, save for myself, and that even towards myself he was often cold. Our more observant readers may have guessed the truth. If I have given an erroneous view of my friend, it is only in order to place due emphasis on his mental powers. But my own feelings, given what Sherlock Holmes has been to me through our many years of friendship, require that I write an account that shows the man as well as the deductive reasoner, even if it is never read. Our more observant followers may also have guessed that Holmes was by no means without friends; indeed, he surrounded himself with some of the most extraordinary people I have ever met. Contained in this story, and in others never published, are accounts of how Holmes and I worked together with London's most intelligent unknowns, to solve cases none of use could have accomplished alone.

"Well! It seems we are all to be murdered in our beds!"

I jerked fully awake in my chair at Dr. James Emerson's outer office. Though I had lived with Sherlock Holmes only since January of that year (it now being June) his habit of exclaiming with delight over a convoluted case had already made me a dedicated reader of the paper, in order to distract him from the cocaine he resorted to in times of boredom. I turned to the woman next to me.

"A murder? How very shocking; what has happened?" I was alarmed to realize that I was politely lying when I said the news was shocking. Due to Holmes's obsession with illegal killings, discussion of such things was becoming almost normal.

"Oh, read for yourself. It is too distressing," sighed the young lady. "My appointment was for five minutes ago, why have they not called me?" Disgruntled, she got up and moved away.

I scanned the paper, only to discover the news to which she referred was not that of a murder at all, but a jewel robbery, in which two pairs of diamond earrings and a priceless pearl necklace belonging to the Duchess of Somerset had disappeared without a trace. The newspaper declared the police were confident they could locate the thief, and as they had put neither Lestrade nor Gregson—the best of the professionals—on the case, I could only conclude it was the truth. Disappointed, I tossed the paper aside and attempted to amuse myself by observing the others waiting to see Dr. Emerson.

It was at times like this that I envied my friend's apparent ease with people of all classes, from his street urchins to the moneyed family whom he was now attempting to rid of a blackmailer. Every patient in this office was obviously better off than me. Had not my old orderly, Murray, dropped by to visit a few weeks ago and demanded I see a doctor, I wouldn't be here at all. It was true, my shoulder and leg were recovering slowly and the healing had taken more out of me than it probably should have. I insisted this was an after-effect of the fever and would pass, mostly because I had begun to believe the opposite. In my private moments, I would viciously fight the knowledge that my mind was slowly slipping from my control, wracked with visions of the war. In a public place like this, I simply tried to ignore it. I had resisted seeking other medical advice for fear my suspicions would be confirmed, but could not use cost as an excuse when Murray had offered to help pay for a specialist.

So here I was. The only lucky element about this was Holmes' absence from London for a few days. If it was bad news I got, I would have some time to prepare to hide it from him. The man had a cursed ability to tell whenever I was upset, and I had no interest in my only maybe-friend knowing I was going mad. If, indeed, I was.

"Dr. Watson? Your appointment, sir."

I followed the doctor's assistant to his office, where Emerson greeted me and waved the assistant out. The physical examination seemed routine enough to me, but apparently not to the doctor, for when I had dressed and sat down to hear his consultation, he was frowning.

"You say you are a veteran, sir?"

"Yes; that was how I obtained the injuries to my shoulder and leg." _And mind._

"I am surprised your leg was not amputated. Did your surgeon say why?"

"No, he did not." _Because I was so terrified of infection that I wouldn't stop screaming until he put the anaesthetics away._

"And you had enteric fever for eight weeks after?"

"I did." _It would have been a blessing to be off the field; except I didn't realized I'd left._

"Are you eating regularly?"

"I am." _Half-starving for several months can do that to a person._

"And sleeping? How are you sleeping?"

"Not as well as I might be, I suppose." _The understatement of a lifetime. And it has nothing to do with Holmes's violin._

"Can you be more specific, Dr. Watson?"

"I have nightmares sometimes." _Every night. Often twice._

"I see." This went on for awhile, the lines between Dr. Emerson's eyebrows getting deeper and deeper and my evasions coming closer and closer to lies. Finally the doctor sighed and rubbed his forehead, leaving a smear of ink. "Is there anything else regarding your health that you're concerned about, sir?"

"No, I don't think so." _Apart, of course, from the fact that I have flashbacks to the wards and the fields in Afghanistan, visibly jump whenever anyone makes a sudden noise, keep waking up covered in sweat and crying and thinking I can't breathe…_ I pushed my thoughts away and tried to infer what Holmes would deduce from the ink stain that now decorated the man's forehead.

Dr. Emerson sighed again. "Very well. I am sorry to say that there is little I can do for you, except to call at your home in a week's time, as we agreed earlier. And, of course…" He reached for his prescription pad. "This ought to give you some relief."

I dropped the papers as fast as I would a snake. "Doctor, the pain from my injuries isn't that bad! I don't need morphine—" I turned over the other prescription "—or opium!"

"A morphine prescription is routine in cases such as yours. To use it is not dangerous."

_But it's addicting. And the last thing Holmes needs right now is more morphine lying around our rooms._

"Even if that's true, I do _not_ want to spend the rest of my life rotting away in an opium den!"

"And how do you propose to spend it?" demanded Emerson impatiently, turning back to his list. "Andrews!" He went to speak with his assistant, while I sat frozen in my chair. How _was_ I going to spend my life? I almost didn't want to know. Deaths from drink and drugs clung to my family tree like parasites—my own brother spent half his small income in public houses. I had determined that my own life would be normal, but what _was_ normal? Getting shot twice, losing most of my friends to a war, and living with ruined health on a veteran's pension didn't exactly fit the bill, but surely opium and morphine were no cure for that?

Emerson turned back to me. "Dr. Watson, I will be blunt. You are clearly not getting better. In fact, you seem to be getting worse. Your wound pension runs out in three months, and if you continue along your present path you will not have the strength to work, or indeed, do much of anything. I cannot help you, sir. The most I can give you is comfort."

"Comfort!" I rocketed out of my chair. "It's of great comfort to know that the only thing I am good for now is to be a degenerate addict!"

He sighed. Again. I wondered how his wife could stand it. "I see this a lot with veterans. It's not an unusual—"

I shoved the prescriptions in my pocket and walked out the door before he could finish. Outside, I thought of calling a cab but decided security about this month's rent was better, and turned to walk home.

Was it even worth resisting? I thought miserably as I trudged along the crowded, roiling streets, full of shouts and oaths. If I was as far gone as Emerson seemed to think, perhaps my will to resist the drugs would burn out anyway. I could save myself the trouble and start using them now—I stopped in horror. What was I thinking? Should I risk the very thing I feared for Holmes in his languid periods between cases? _Overdose._ The thought of finding my only possible friend dead from too much cocaine made my hands shake. Holmes had never showed much beyond a mild and absentminded liking for me, but I would never subject him to the after-effects of an accidental suicide.

I entered our rooms at Baker Street with a quick greeting to Mrs. Hudson, who was struggling with her apparently broken wringer washer, and climbed the stairs wearily. What was I going to do with the prescriptions? The idea of actually taking opium, or morphine in the absence of the need for sedation was repugnant to me, but medical school and later the army had hammered it into me to follow a doctor's orders. I finally shoved the prescriptions under a stack of Holmes's papers. Archaeologists excavating these rooms in a hundred years would be hard pressed to find them now.

The next day found me at the railway station, seeing Stamford off for his cousin's wedding after a morning visit with him. It was June, and (to dare Holmes's disapproval and indulge in a small degree of romanticism) city and country alike seemed blushing and abloom, newlyweds and fiancés strolling down every street, hands linked. While waiting for Stamford's train, he and I fell into conversation with two of the latter, come down to London from Sussex, where they had met and courted, to be married at the home of the lady. The soon-to-be bridegroom, who introduced himself as George Alder, soon departed to find a porter, leaving us to the tender mercies of as excited a young bride as one could wish to encounter.

Miss Serena Nelson nevertheless drew my interest for, after telling us several too many details about her wedding dress ("Cream ribbed silk with a veil of lace to match the trim and a wreath of orange flowers, can you imagine?") she began to speak about how she and Mr. Alder had nearly been driven apart forever by a blackmailer.

"But Mr. Sherlock Holmes—maybe you've heard of him—cleared up the whole thing, and we're ever so obliged to him," Miss Nelson declared as her fiancé returned with two porters, one of whom took their luggage and the other, Stamford's.

"Indeed you must be," I replied, my heart leaping at the thought that my friend must even now be en route to home, if his case was concluded with such expediency. "My congratulations."

"Thank you, sir." George Alder assisted the porter with his luggage and the couple went to a waiting cab. I bid goodbye to Stamford and turned back to see Miss Nelson waving at me. I waved back with a smile.

"Meditating on the joy of thrusting oneself into matrimony, Watson?" said a familiar voice just behind me. "Especially when all so might have easily gone astray, and their young love spoiled when it should be sweetest and best?"

"Holmes!" I turned and found myself, to my consternation and delight, addressing the porter who had taken Stamford's suitcase, looking at me with unconcealed fun in his eyes.

"It is good to see you, Watson. I see you've made the acquaintance of my young friends. A simple enough case, but with its own points of merit. I see you must have walked to the station, or your shoes would not be so muddy so early in the day, so let us call a cab to get back to Baker Street."

Call a cab we did, for which I was grateful. Holmes winced and then sneezed as we rolled out of the station, past cooing couples and more than a few bouquets of flowers.

"Caught cold, Holmes?"

"No, it's the roses, they make my nose itch. And why must those giggling couples get in the way so? Do amorous chemicals in the brain prevent them from seeing that they are blocking the road?"

I sighed, and hoped promptly and illogically that I did not sound like Dr. Emerson. "They're in love, Holmes. It's June."

"It's a public nuisance," Holmes retorted. "If I ever fell in love, I would do it in January."

_Contrary consulting detective. I'd hardly be shocked if he did._ I shook my head and grinned wickedly. "You do not like feeling the sweetness in the air, then?" I asked with false concern. "June brings you no happiness, no hope?"

"I only _hope_ that George Alder did not spend his bride's entire fortune tipping every cabman between here and Sussex. That purse is new, but the lining is frayed already; you can always tell a generous spender that way."

"And why did you dress in a porter's jacket for your return trip? What does that portend?"

Holmes yawned. "Little enough. It was a case of a set of misplaced luggage, if you can believe I have fallen so far. I was able to locate it in a matter of minutes. Frankly, Watson, the only thing of any note that has happened since I left London is the extraordinary rise of the price of saffron."

"If you are beginning to take notice of the trade in spices and disguising yourself as a porter for a simple case of a missing suitcase, I fear you may soon grow desperate," I said lightly, attempting to hide my worry that he might soon turn to the cocaine without something more to occupy him.

If Holmes read my implication he gave no sign of it. "I shall not conceal it, I dressed so just as much for your reaction. I do enjoy catching you off your guard a little."

"I don't know why I was shocked to see you dressed as a porter. There's a hardly any place in London where you could not feel at home if you wished."

"There is _one_ place, Watson, and I fervently hope no case shall take me there. If secrecy was necessary, I should fail miserably."

"And that is?" 

The cab drew to a halt, and Holmes climbed down to pay the driver. "Not even you, my dear Watson, may know that." He broke off as a flustered Mrs. Hudson hurried down the stairs.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, thank goodness you've returned," she exclaimed. "I thought I would be driven insane!"

I threw Holmes an inquiring look, but he seemed as puzzled as I. "I haven't even been here to make a mess, Mrs. Hudson. What is the problem?"

"It's not you," Mrs. Hudson replied, wringing her hands. "It's _her._ All she said was, 'I'd like to look at your wringer washer,' I'll swear to it, she said nothing else, and the poor young lady had been waiting for you so long, Mr. Holmes, I thought the least I could do was let her amuse herself. So I show her the washer, and go back to fetch the laundry, and when I come back, she's sitting in the middle of my kitchen, with soapsuds everywhere and my washer in five different pieces and half the bars pulled off the windows—and all she says is, 'Who designed this? The handle is too short and the nails will give out in six months. I'll fix it for you; I know how.' She's been there three hours, Mr. Holmes, and I can't get rid of her!" Our landlady had obviously left distressed behind and was entering frantic.

"Did she mention why she wished to see me?" At the possibility of a case, Holmes's eyes had lit up instantly.

"She mentioned something to do with a robbery," replied Mrs. Hudson, apparently a bit annoyed that Holmes was not taking the destruction of her beloved washer as an unheard-of calamity. "And I told her I didn't know when you would be back, but she insisted upon waiting, and I—"

Holmes promptly brushed past the landlady and darted up the stairs. "Don't fret, Mrs. Hudson, we shall have the young lady off your hands in a moment. Do keep her company while I rid myself of this unprofessional apparel." I threw an apologetic look at Mrs. Hudson before following. If this case was anywhere near as intriguing as the description of the client who brought it, all thoughts of cocaine would, I hoped, be vanquished from Holmes's thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks, nightmares, and Watson's other problems as recorded here are classic symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, though that particular term was not coined until after World War II. A description of a patient addicted to opium can be found in 'The Man with the Twisted Lip.'


	2. Cut from a Different Cloth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Holmes and Watson create a miniature snowstorm, and meet their newest client.

My intention upon entering the room had been to clean up the endless bits of paper scattered everywhere, in order to make a decent impression upon our guest. This purpose changed the moment I came in, to preventing my room-mate's imminent transformation into a human smokestack.

"Holmes! For heaven's sake!"

My sometimes-almost-friend blinked. "Really, Watson, the Persian slipper is the best place to keep my tobacco. It was my impression that we'd gone over this already."

"I would vastly prefer it, Holmes, if the tobacco showed some inclination to _stay_ in the Persian slipper. At least open a window or our client may asphyxiate before she can give us the facts of her case."

"Very well," Holmes replied meekly. "And after we have solved it, then may I poison her with tobacco smoke?"

I jumped in indignation, saw the glint of humour in his face, and shook my head. "No, my good fellow. If the fair sex is, as you say, my department, I believe I should be the one doing the poisoning if any is required."

I saw a smile that might have become a laugh if he had not doused it, and found myself wishing that the man would give more indication of his humanity than the barbed sarcasm I had found myself growing fond of.

As Holmes opened the windows with an air of long-suffering, I undertook to clear the avalanche of papers from our armchairs and sofa. A task made more difficult by the fact that Holmes had shredded an incredible amount of scraps, which had blown like snow across the floor and everything else. Poor Mrs. Hudson—soapsuds downstairs, paper upstairs.

"Watson! What on earth do you think you are doing?"

I looked up to see Holmes looming over me with an angry and annoyed expression I felt the situation hardly warranted. "I'm cleaning up. All this infernal paper would be bad enough if it was in sheets, the form in which paper is generally thought to be most useful. Seeing as it is now confetti—"

"I was _diagramming_ in that paper, Watson! If you will not allow me to do the work that keeps this roof over both our heads—no thanks to you, I might add—"

That stung, badly. "Excuse me? You have had hardly more work than I lately. You said so yourself!"

"That is no excuse for preventing me from doing the little I can get!"

"Don't you think it's bad enough not being not being able to support myself, without being called an inconvenience to someone else? Perhaps I should have contrived to die of enteric fever and saved you from _disturbance_ in your work!" In a temper, I tossed all the paper back onto the floor, scattering it even more widely than before.

"Watson. Stop it."

I dropped to the ground, feeling embarrassed at my small outburst, but determinedly beginning to gather the scraps anyway.

"Watson. _Stop it."_

I glared up at him, exasperated. "I can't stop it, Holmes, unless you want your client to—" My words died out as my companion cut a wide sheaf through the paper with a broom.

"Faster with this," he informed me brusquely. "Move; you're in the way. I suppose it is my mess."

I dropped into my armchair helplessly, as Holmes neatly finished what he had only a few moments ago nearly taken my head off for attempting. Would I ever get this man's limits?

"Are you spring cleaning in the summer, or merely attempting to recreate a combination ash volcano and snowstorm, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" A warm, low voice sounded from the door. "In either case, Dr. Watson apparently shows good sense in getting out of the way."

Perched bird-like on our threshold was a young woman with dancing blue eyes peeping out from a pretty, but oddly lopsided, face. Her nose was small and delicate, but tilted far off to one side, her mouth began lovely and well-formed before taking a crooked ride across a third of her face. Her hair was ashy brown, very thin, and done up in an elaborate chignon style not at all in keeping with the rest of her attire. The old shoes, the blue dress that was more darns than cloth, the grey gloves that had lost their shine in one hand and the wind-abused hat in the other, all bespoke a small income. I attempted to apply Holmes's methods as well as I could, but, as was normal in those early days, I gained nothing important.

"Good morning, madam," Holmes replied courteously. "I do apologize for the mess. You may thank Dr. Watson here that you have a place to sit at all—do take advantage of the fact. Once involved in my work, I tend to overlook other concerns."

"Such as eating and sleeping," I murmured. "I think you would ignore real volcanoes and snowstorms if you could."

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "My dear Watson! I assure you I can." He turned back to our visitor, who had hopped onto our sofa in the interval and was watching our interaction with apparent fascination. "Now, you appear to need no introduction—though why, I am not sure—"

"Honestly, Holmes," I interrupted. "We live here!"

"Yes, yes, but I only knew which of you was which when I saw that Mr. Holmes was wearing a porter's coat," our visitor broke in happily. "Doctors don't—not medical ones, anyway. I've seen a few out-of-work Doctors of Philosophy at it, but no army surgeons. And anyway, all real porters carry a roll of string to tie up luggage that flies open and makes a mess everywhere."

"Quite true," Holmes agreed, his eyes sharpening with interest. "But as I was about to say, you have the advantage of us as far as introductions go. Do tell us about yourself and what brings you here, excluding, naturally, the obvious facts that you come from a family of devoted watchmakers, currently work sewing bridal gowns, have picked up a pair of second-hand shoes within the last several days, are currently being courted by a gentleman who works with an Oriental trading company, and go out in all weathers. I should also think it quite likely that you have no brothers and that your family also crafts jewellery."

Our visitor burst out laughing and shook her head. "I guess you've no need of a resume, Mr. Holmes, not if everyone who walks through that door gets the treatment I just did. My name is Callie Larch, and everything you just said is true, so kindly convince me that you don't have a very powerful telescope aimed at my window by explaining just how you knew all that."

"Please do, Holmes," I added. "I believe some day you'll make some poor person tumble over in a dead faint, convinced you can read minds."

"Actually, my dear Watson, that has already occurred in the curious case of the _Gloria Scott_. Remind me to tell you about it at some point." He turned back to Miss Larch and her alert expression. "You bear the mark of a thimble on your finger, but it is not as pronounced as on a professional seamstress. I expect the bridal shops are hiring temporary hands, as Dr. Watson informs me that it is June."

"Good for him. Go on."

"The calluses on your hands are the sort you may find on a watchmaker's, but that alone would not be enough, as other work may leave similar patterns. I draw the final conclusion from your own watch, which is far finer than the rest of your attire—no insult meant, I assure you—and engraved as well. You differentiate ash volcanoes from other types, which is rarely done by anyone but geologists and those who have reason to pay attention to jewels, and you have metal polish stains on the hem of your skirt. And it is doubtful your family would not have taught you their craft if you had brothers to carry on the tradition in your place."

"Very logical," Miss Larch said approvingly. "What about the shoes?"

"Yes, one should always take the shoes second…in this case, Watson, you will observe that the new laces have been pulled tight, presumably so they will fit your feet, Miss Larch, but the old laces have left deep marks in their original positions. Therefore the shoes are second-hand. The disregard for bad weather I deduce from that very long-suffering hat I see upon the table."

"All quite sensible, but what about my mysterious gentleman friend from across the sea?" Miss Larch quipped.

Holmes gave a half smile. "When I meet a young lady smelling strongly of expensive cloves and orange peel, what other conclusion can I draw but that she receive regular gifts from Eastern travellers? And perfume is an unlikely gift from a man whose aim is merely to be a friend."

"No other," Miss Larch replied, laughing again. "I see I've come to the right place."

"Proceed, then," said my friend, as I hastily reached for some of the paper lying near me and prepared to take notes, "to tell the doctor and I, in detail if you please, what manner of problem has brought you here."

At this invitation, Miss Larch shifted, looking down at the gloves she held in her lap. "The thing is, Mr. Holmes, Doctor," she said slowly, "it's actually not my problem at all. And according to the police, who claim to have cleared the whole thing up, I have no business seeking another opinion. But to be perfectly frank—"

"Please be so, Miss Larch," Holmes interrupted. "I will find it difficult to be of any use otherwise."

"Very well. The problem in question is a robbery, or rather, an act of vandalism, that occurred at the bridal shop where I am working at the moment. The inspector put in charge, whose name is Jones, claims to have found both a man and a motive, which I guess can hold up in a British court. But they don't hold up in the Callie Larch court, and as Mr. Jones positively refuses to listen to anything I have to say—" Holmes snorted, evidently not surprised "—I've come to see if you'll have a bit more sense."

"I think we can safely promise you that," Holmes assured her. I kicked the ankle nearest to me that wasn't our client's.

Miss Larch withdrew a piece of paper from her pocket, unfolded it, and smoothed out the creases on the arm of the sofa. "I drew this up before I left. It's a bit of a map of the shop."

Holmes and I both pulled our chairs closer and followed with our eyes the directions indicated by Miss Larch's fingers as she talked.

"Most of the front of the shop is taken up by a plate-glass window, behind which Madame Revel, my employer, displays some sample dresses for the passers-by. To actually get in, one has to go around here, to the left, and in at this door, which leads to the main shop area, where our customers can browse through our fabrics or look at the pattern books at Madame Revel's desk, which is opposite the door."

"And where does that door lead to?" Holmes indicated an entrance that led to a large room behind the main area.

"That's our fitting room. Madame also keeps dress samples back there during the daytime. Lots of people will decide to indulge in an extra veil or better cloth if it's right there as they're being fitted. All the dresses are locked up at night, though."

"In the fitting area?"

"No. Back here, you see, is our main sewing room, where we do all the dress-making. The dresses go in there at night. There's also another door that leads out to the yard behind the shop, but no one ever opens it. Usually we stack boxes against it, actually."

"Did you notice if any were there when the crime was committed?"

Now it was Miss Larch's turn to snort. "It was practically the first thing I checked. Even Jones thought to look there. There weren't any."

"Ah. Please, continue."

Miss Larch passed the map to me for a closer look as she continued to talk. "As you observed, I only work at Madame's in the summer, when the rush gets bad—my friends Mary Morstan, Kitty Winter, and I. Well, yesterday evening, some of them were working late, cleaning and all, and Mary and Kitty and I took our sewing out front, because we'd closed and no one was coming in to buy anything. When you sit facing the door there's a good view out through the display glass and the door, which also has a decorative window in it. Not that there's usually much to see."

"Usually?" Holmes asked sharply.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, last night was different. If you'll remember, it was storming pretty badly, and so we got a man coming down, crying drunk, right on the steps outside."

"Did you all see him?"

"Oh, yes, there's no mistake to be made about that." Miss Larch grinned. "If we hadn't seen him, we'd have heard him. He was singing a very rude fishing song about hooks and bait, figuratively speaking. I won't bother you with the details on that."

"And perhaps for the first time in his life, Holmes will refrain from asking for them," I added under my breath. He heard anyway and tried to glare at me while smiling. It wasn't terribly successful. Miss Larch made a small choking noise that passed for a discreet cough. Holmes turned back to her.

"What was the fate of this musically inclined drunkard? I presume he left eventually."

"Actually, I had to go chase him away," Miss Larch replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "People claimed they couldn't concentrate. He called me a few irritating names and stumbled off. That's when I saw the newspaper in his boots."

"Newspaper in his boots?" I inquired. "You mean, to keep them from leaking?"

"Does it have some bearing on the case?" Holmes asked.

"To the first, yes—to the second, I believe it may. I'll come to that in a moment. We stayed there sewing for maybe an hour after that. And by the way, Mr. Holmes, you can be absolutely sure that all the doors were locked when we left, because I checked them all. I'd have checked the windows too, but they don't open in any case."

"Did you check because of the drunken man?" Holmes inquired from behind his steepled fingers.

To my surprise, Miss Larch turned a little red. "No, I do them every night. At my boardinghouse too. I guess you could say I'm a bit paranoid."

"Do you fear personal attack?"

Miss Larch looked startled. "What? No. Anyone who wants to attack me can do it far more easily in the street. It's thieves I worry about."

"Very natural, for a watchmaker's daughter. And when you left, what could you see in the street?"

"Not much," Miss Larch replied regretfully. "The rain was really coming down by that time. Plus, we let out right when the workmen and the like are pouring into the pubs, so if there was anyone out there who had something to do with this, I wouldn't know him from Adam, even if I had been looking. Which I wasn't."

"So I presume, then, that the first you heard of this affair was when you arrived in the morning."

"That's right, Mr. Holmes, and I particularly wish to be explicit from now on, so if I seem to be adding unnecessary details—"

"I welcome all the information you can give me, Miss Larch," Holmes interrupted firmly. "The smallest points are often the most important. Please go on."

"Well, next morning, I woke up early, and walked down there—around six thirty this was, already light, but not too many people about. Once I got there, I went around the side to try the door. Just Madame has a key, but she's generally there before the rest of us and opens up. Only I didn't get that far, because there was broken glass all down the steps."

"From the window in the door?" I interrupted.

"That's right. Someone had put something small through the lowest right hand window pane—right from the outside, that is. Left from the inside. So I walked around the glass and tried the door, and it was open. And when I got in there was more glass on the floor, and someone had gone scratching all around the inside keyhole with something made of metal."

"How did you know what it was made of?" Holmes demanded.

"Some metal-worker I'd be if I couldn't tell that much."

"True. That is very lucky. Was the metal that scratched the keyhole the same as that of the door fittings?"

"No, the door fittings are copper-plated. Whatever scratched them was uncoated iron."

"I suppose there were similar marks on the outside keyhole?"

Miss Larch shook her head. "Not a one, Mr. Holmes, and that's what puzzled me. You see marks like that on a drunken man's door, but in this case, it's as if whoever broke in came in sober and walked out drunk. And that's completely impossible. There's not a drop of liquor on our premises. Besides, drinking was not what he, or she, had come for."

"What! There was more?"

"I should say so. The first thing I saw was our catalogue books, where we keep notes of our clients, pictures of our patterns, things like that. We keep them under the counter, and they were scattered all over the floor, covered in water spots. One had a page torn out. And they had pencil marks on them—all but one."

Holmes leaned forward eagerly. "What kind of pencil marks? And which one?"

"Check marks on ever page. Done with one of our cloth pencils, I'm afraid, so no hope of tracing anyone by that. The book that wasn't marked is where we list our clients in correspondence with the types of material they want their dresses made from, and the basic pattern of the dress—if they want it specially altered that's written elsewhere."

"And the one with the torn page?"

"Names and addresses for billing."

"Was the torn page on the floor also?"

"No, it was gone. I searched everywhere."

"Could that be, then, what your thief wanted?"

"Maybe, but it sure wasn't all."

Both Holmes and I sat forward. I noted with some amusement that Holmes's chair was actually tipping slightly.

"I was just finishing looking at the books when I smelled gas from the workroom. You can't get a gas stain out of cloth to save your life, and besides, leaving the lamps lit could burn the whole shop down, so we're always careful to blow them out when we leave. I dashed in there and saw a lamp lit—just one, but it had to have been going for a pretty long while, judging by the smell in that room. And under the lamp were three of our wedding dresses—slashed to pieces with a knife."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback of all kinds is greatly appreciated.


	3. A Function of Needles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which new information comes to light, wedding announcements are read, and Lestrade appears on the scene.

"Watch it, Holmes!"

My warning came too late. Holmes's chair, which had been leaning steadily forward since the beginning of our interview, lost balance and slid over with a crash, depositing him beneath it on the floor.

Resisting the urge to laugh which would have wounded an already sore dignity, I jumped up and promptly yanked the heavy armchair off. "You're not hurt, are you, old fellow?"

"For heaven's sake, Watson, it's an armchair," snapped Holmes, clearly embarrassed. "I do not need you to look after me!"

"Well, seeing as you seem to think I can't look out for myself either, I suppose that's reasonable," I retorted. Why did the man need to be so damned sensitive? As a matter of fact, why did _I_ need to be?

"Beg to differ with you there, Mr. Holmes," came a dry voice from just behind me. Miss Larch took a hopping step forward, appearing more bird-like than ever with that odd tilt of the head which seemed to characterize her. "You may be one of the greatest detectives the world will ever know, but you most assuredly need someone to look after you, if your wrists are any indication. And I'd advise against such reckless behaviour, by the way."

Wrists? I turned in time to see Holmes yanking down his sleeve cuffs with unwonted force, and my throat tightened as I remembered what I myself had seen there more than once. The scars left by the drug needles.

Holmes stared. "And what business is that of yours?"

Miss Larch flipped herself back down on the couch, and I busied myself with righting the armchair. "It matters not in the least to me what drugs you use in the house, so long as you do not use them in the street and frighten the horses. That was _not_ the reckless behaviour I was referring to."

I had no idea what Miss Larch was talking about, but apparently Holmes did, for, to my shock, he actually turned red. "I...suppose you may be right," he said reluctantly. "I shall…think on it."

"You do that." Miss Larch tossed a fallen pillow in the general direction of the chair. "Now, before we got all excited about independently-minded furniture, I was going to tell you about those wedding gowns."

The two of us returned to our seats and fixed our attention once again on our visitor, Holmes with his eyes on his own intertwined fingers and a furrowed brow, and I wishing in equal parts for the continuation of the narrative and that I dared to demand of its listener exactly what he meant by his oblique previous statement. Miss Larch straightened her skirt and continued.

"Well, as I said, the dresses were slashed—in the same places, each one. A slash in the front and back of the skirt, four that went all the way around the bodice, and one on each sleeve, shoulder to wrist. It was just those four dresses that were off the racks, but whoever did it touched every finished dress in the room. I could tell because they were all pulled way off to the same side on the hangers."

"A moment." Holmes raised one finger. "You are quite sure he, or she, only touched the finished dresses?"

"Positive. We keep the unfinished dresses on the tables or on another rack, and I asked everyone just where they'd left their work. As far as we can tell, nothing was moved. Do you think it important?"

"At the very least, it is suggestive. Three dresses slashed, you say?"

"Yes."

"Unlikely to be a crime of passion, then."

"No, I thought not. But I did bring the names and addresses of the ladies whose dresses they were, in case you wanted to ask them anything. Inspector Jones did."

Holmes wave the paper away. "I don't doubt the man's energy. Besides, I doubt it's important."

"Energy is _all_ he has, as far as I can tell," muttered Miss Larch "He didn't think the silk was the least bit important."

"The silk?" I asked, intrigued. "That the dresses were made of, you mean?"

"Pardon me." Holmes's face had gone from introspective to sharp in a matter of seconds. "Do you mean to say that all the slashed dresses were made of the same material?"

"Yes, exactly. Made of, as it happens, highly expensive and heavy ribbed silk, cream-colored. It's more popular for fall and spring weddings than summer ones, which is why we only had three. And those were the only three we had."

"This is really an excellent little problem, Miss Larch," said Holmes thoughtfully. "You have been remarkably clear in your statement, so I will ask only a few questions. Who has the ability to have a duplicate key made?"

"Most of the seamstresses, actually. Jones insisted a man had to have done it, but even if that _were_ true, whoever obtained the key isn't necessarily the same person who vandalized the shop. I can vouch for Mary and Kitty though. Had either of them gone to have a key copied I would have noticed."

Unable to keep quiet, I broke in. "Miss Larch, I think you said the newspaper in the drunken man's boots was important. I confess that I fail to see a connection."

"I must join you in confusion there, Watson," Holmes added. "In fact, I was just about to ask about it myself."

"Quite. This morning Jones, after having an energetic and pretty thoroughly useless look at the evidence, tracked down the drunk man and arrested him for the crime, the idea being that he was cross at being turned away from our door last night. He'd managed to pick up on the fact that the marks on the lock were like that on a drunkard's door, and attributes the lack of marks on the outer door as a lucky chance. It seemed pretty silly to me to expect a drunkard out for revenge to slash a very specific type of material the same way every time, but Jones puts that down to chance as well. But the final straw was when he wouldn't listen about the newspapers."

"What about them?"

"If you'll recall, it rained heavily all yesterday, so anyone walking around at night would get his shoes thoroughly soaked in mud. There were some footprints on the floor with boots that happen to match those of the drunkard. But I doubt that anyone with enough foresight to obtain a key would fail to realize he was leaving muddy footprints on the floor. However, if our vandal did recognize the risks therein, he or she might have borrowed someone else's boots to confuse investigators. And the vandal did take his boots off, or changed them, because they were stuffed with the 'Times' when he left our shop and the 'Post' when he was arrested. Not that anyone at the Yard takes this as evidence, mind. Apparently, ladies have imaginations. But nothing anyone has said to me so far convinces me we've gotten to the end of the matter."

"I am not about to try and convince you of any such thing," Holmes replied. "And those boots you are wearing—do they happen to be the drunkard's, which you appropriated to keep your own shoes dry in this mud?"

"Waste not, want not, Mr. Holmes. Would you like to see the scene of the crime for yourself?"

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "You mean it has not been completely trampled by your fellow seamstresses and the Scotland Yard crew?"

Miss Larch laughed. "Scotland Yard isn't _that_ careless. They realize the importance of preserving traces even if they can't always understand them. I'm afraid that Madame insisted on cleaning up the glass, so as not to alarm our customers, but I did collect it all in this envelope before I came, just in case. The back room has been straightened but we left the slashed dresses as we found them."

"I suppose it is too late to come today, if we wish to speak to the other seamstresses?"

"In all likelihood, yes. But if you came, say, tomorrow at noon, I think you could probably have a decent look around. The girls are all bored right before lunch if no one's come in. They'll find you two quite the novelty."

"Ah, yes, Watson, your department, I believe. That would be admirable, Miss Larch. Just two more questions—do you have that envelope of glass with you?"

"In my pocket. Here it is. Oh, and I meant to give you this before—it's a list of anyone who has ordered or received a dress made of that particular silk from our shop this year, marked as to whether they've been delivered, finished, or their fate otherwise."

"You are quite the model client. Thank you, and, lastly, if I may be so bold as to ask—why are you doing this?"

Miss Larch hooked an eyebrow. "Doing what, exactly?"

"Working in a bridal shop. A young lady of your talents—no, don't deny it, it's clear you are considerably skilled as a watchmaker and jeweller—why would you choose sewing over that?"

"I'm not choosing it over, exactly." Miss Larch hesitated a moment. "When my father died, the business was willed to his business partner, and I was supposed to inherit a share in it. Except he used a legal technicality to get everything for himself, so I have to start all over."

"And were you to marry, perhaps to your friend who works with the Oriental ships, you could begin your trade again if you so chose. But in the meantime, you sew, as that is a far easier job for a woman to acquire."

Miss Larch cast an exasperated look at me. "Tell me, Dr. Watson, do you ever get tired of him finishing your sentences for you?"

"All the time," I replied with a straight face. "It's even worse because sometimes he begins them for me too."

Holmes bounced up ramrod-straight in his chair. "I do not!"

"Yes, you do," I informed him.

"Conjecture does not count as mind-reading!"

"Oh, so it's conjecture now, is it?" I replied blandly, relishing the rare opportunity to tease my companion. "Not deduction based on firm fact?"

"Watson! I never guess!"

"You said it, not the doctor," Miss Larch put in. "Nice to see you're not made of cast iron, by the way." She bounced up off the sofa and snapped up her hat from the table. "I'll see the two of you at noon tomorrow, unless you're still arguing or get distracted by a murder or something of that kind." She flashed us a brilliant, crooked smile and disappeared out the door.

The abrupt departure of our strange visitor startled Holmes enough to make him forget his argument, and he stared moodily into the fire, while I watched him and wished I could follow whatever theory he was undoubtedly stringing together.

"Look here, Watson," he finally said, "I'm going to take this case, don't doubt it, but I am not sure it is the action of someone quite in their right mind. If we only knew what harm might come, it would cease to be a danger. Odd though this case is, it is the client who is capable of adding undefined variables."

"She did seem a bit unusual," I admitted.

"A 'bit unusual,' Watson? As much as the Afghan conflict is a disagreement between friends, or Norman-Neruda shows some ability to carry a tune. Consider. A young woman enters our apartments dressed like the thriftiest of single governesses, and yet is no such thing, but eccentric enough to continue a family trade despite great obstacles. She smells like oranges and cloves and has an extraordinary eye for detail. Her friends at the bridal shop look to her to chase away the drunks on their doorsteps and do 'other things like that,' so it is not so surprising that her nose has been broken at least twice. When confronted with the idea of physical attack, instead of reacting with fear or denying that anyone would want to hurt her, she matter-of-factly states that potential danger is altogether more likely to come from the streets she apparently walks through at night to get home."

"Well, when put that way, I suppose 'a bit unusual' does not quite tell it all," I said, "but danger?"

"What is thoroughly unknown has a great potential for danger, Watson. That's one of the reasons I like it so much. Hopefully our visit tomorrow, and our talks with the young seamstresses, will be sufficient to throw some light. For now, let us examine this glass."

Without further ado, he spread a clean cloth on the table and emptied the contents of the envelope upon it, before taking up his magnifying glass and examining each piece in detail, carefully avoiding the sharp edges.

"That's an awful lot of broken glass," I commented. "Our friend Miss Larch said the hole in the pane was small."

"Excellent, Watson!"

I stared. "How so?"

"Oh, it may all come to nothing. We shall have to—hullo, Watson! Take a look at this."

I leaned forward. "It looks fairly ordinary to me."

"That is because you are looking at it only. Alone, it seems quite normal, but in comparison to the others—"

"Why, it's thicker!" I exclaimed. "Far thicker. How is that possible?"

"A very good question, Watson. Nevertheless, it is thicker, as is this piece here, and this one—"

"And that one over there," I interrupted eagerly. "Do you suppose the glass was warped?"

"Unlikely. All these larger shards are the same thickness. Distorted glass tends to have lumps and bubbles, and almost certainly would not be found in a window anyway. Now, Watson, I think I shall go engage in that type of data-gathering which you likely have no interest in, to prepare for tomorrow."

"Data on what, if I may ask?"

Holmes gave me a strange quick grin as he stepped toward the door. "Oh, merely a little investigation on silk warehouses and the like. I shall be back before nightfall."

"Could I have that in writing?" I asked dryly.

I think he _almost_ laughed as he disappeared down the stairs.

Knowing that in all likelihood I would have our rooms to myself for awhile, I settled at my desk and began to edit the notes I had already scribbled out. I enjoyed the work, but was markedly nervous about Holmes's reaction to it. Having experienced his fury at what he had acidly termed my 'lurid romanticism,' I was in no hurry to run headlong into yet another misguided attempt to please him. After a few hours of work and supper, I retired to my room, determined to sleep in order to be fresh for our investigation the next day. I knew my rest would be disturbed. As bad as the nightmares were normally, they tended to be at their worse when Holmes was out. I don't know how long I lay awake or when I fell into that fitful slumber that passed for sleep in those days…

 _"Dr. Watson!" I was shaken out of my sleep by a soldier whose left side I had treated only a week ago, after a bullet glanced off him. He was back in the field already—_ _the need was too great and the wards too crowded for soldiers to rest long. "They just brought in what looks like half a company and they need everyone they can get."_

_I nodded and got up, pulling on the closest clothes and grabbing my bag before I followed the soldier into the medical tent. For a moment, the blood and pale faces swirled before my eyes like a kaleidoscope, as they always did when I first saw battle carnage. I knew it would pass as soon as I had one person to focus on. As long as I could see everyone, I'd be longing to fix them all and blame myself when I couldn't._

_"Quick, Doctor! Patrick here's been shot in the arm, I think more than once!" I followed Murray's voice over to a young soldier who was trying so hard to look cheerful that I felt my heart twist._

_"My ma said I was always causing trouble for the older folks. Guess she was right after all."_

_"Who are you calling old, Mr. Impudence?" I inquired, more to distract him from the pain as I probed at the wounds in his arm. I swallowed. Three bullet wounds, and the blood so bright it left scorch marks on my eyelids, like I'd stared at the sun._

_"Right. Murray, his artery isn't hit, but we'll need to operate quickly, or infection will set in…"I lost myself in a steady stream of instruction and did my best to view the mangled arm with disinterest. It was uncooked meat from the butcher shop, it was a heap of shattered bricks in the rain, it was the laces on my sister's scandalous red boots, it was anything but an arm, I could not think of it as an arm, no, that isn't an arm, Watson, just don't think about it being someone's arm that he'll probably never use again, just don't think about it…_

_I extracted the bullets and I stitched up the arm like it belonged to an old rag doll and I went on to cut at more flesh and put my needle into blood-slick and blood-encrusted skin again and again and I stared into eyes as they went glazed-over and glared back at the white of bone that showed from the bayonet jabs. Someone always had to tell me to stop working or I'd go on until I dropped. Usually. But tonight I saw Patrick grinning like a jack-o-lantern, his face forever frozen with the fever-dreams he'd been having when he died, and I ran, and I ran outside and I momentarily thought I was running away and would be shot in the back and they would find me like that, but mostly I was crying because I hadn't saved him, again I hadn't saved him…_

A screech blasted into my ear and I leaped upright in shock. Blinking through the dark, I realized—Holmes had gotten back and had the violin out. _Oh, thank God._ I wanted nothing more than to run down to my sort-of friend and thank him a million times for waking me up. But of course I couldn't, so instead I lay back down on my sweat-soaked sheets and listened to Holmes's wild music until it faded down to silence.

I awoke a few hours later and decided I could reasonably be expected to get up now. It was early, but I didn't want to go back to sleep and risk another nightmare. Wearily I dressed and headed for the sitting room.

Holmes, awake already, had several sheets of paper in his arms, which I was quite sure would soon join the rest of the mess on the floor, and he was glancing over them with lips pressed tight together, his concentration so intense that—

"Holmes! The table!"

He pulled up sharply. "Watson? You're awake?"

"No, Holmes, I always shout out random warnings in my sleep to keep you from knocking over dangerous chemicals you leave lying around."

My friend's face broke into a rueful smile. "Quite. You should be in bed; you need your rest. Any fool can see you're still recovering from that bullet in your shoulder."

"The explosions from that table when it fell over would have put me back into a brain fever. When did you get so solicitous?"

Holmes briskly fixed his acquired information to his desk with a jack-knife. "Since our bird-like client of yesterday sent a jab at me for my rather rude treatment of you. I apologize for that, by the way. It was unwarranted—and, as Miss Larch said, rather reckless."

I could only stand frozen with surprise, not sure if I was more stunned by Holmes's apology for his behaviour, or Miss Larch's categorization of it as reckless. My friend cleared his throat and glanced at me.

"And I meant no insult to your ability to support yourself. In fact, I owe a great deal to you for putting up with my…habits. I very much doubt anyone else would be so patient." I had thought the same thing many times myself, but to have Holmes come out and say it was entirely unexpected. I could think of nothing to say.

My friend looked at me, the uneasiness in his eyes just barely apparent behind the cool mask he always wore. "I am forgiven, I hope. Or must I perform penitence? Let me see, what would be sufficient? Perhaps I could torture myself by reading the engagement announcements for today?" He picked up the newspaper with a flourish and began a painful recitation, his face twisted with feigned and comical distress. "Miss Phyllis Wright, to Mr. David Green, Esquire, on the third of July. Miss Deborah Ashley, to Captain Matthew Blackwood, on the twentieth of June. The Honourable Miss Marianne Wilson to George, Earl of—"

"Holmes, stop!" I exclaimed, unable to restrain my laughter any longer. "Honestly, even I don't usually bother with engagement announcements."

As we breakfasted, Holmes worked himself into a regular mood, sending what few papers in the room were organized into tangled piles (including some of mine) and expanding his repertoire of disguises with a convincing impersonation of a chimney. I was about to discreetly lock up both our revolvers, in case he took it into his head to try some more indoor target practice, when our bell was rung with surprising force.

"Well, someone's up and about early," Holmes remarked from somewhere within his cloud of fumes. "See who it is, Watson, there's a good fellow."

Glad to have an excuse to open the window, I observed the sidewalk outside. "It's Lestrade. And in a tearing hurry, by the looks of him."

"Someone should let him in before we have a broken bell wire on our hands. This ought to be of interest. Nothing less than attempted murder will get Lestrade that worked up."

A moment later, we heard the officer in question pounding up the stairs, and Holmes barely had time to unlock the door before he burst in. We waiting, all alight with attention, as the professional attempted to get his breath.

"Glass of brandy, Lestrade?" Holmes offered lackadaisically, though the interest in his face belied his voice. "You seem a bit overwrought."

"That I am, Mr. Holmes, and I don't mind admitting it. No, nothing for me right now, thank you. I have just come, gentlemen, from the scene of a double murder—and there is reason to believe that the danger is not yet over."

"Indeed! And may one inquire the identity of the murdered people—and the one you suspect of killing them?"

Lestrade took a deep breath and looked straight into my friend's eyes.

"Mr. Holmes, last night Mr. Edward Ashley and his footman were murdered – and the man suspected of killing them is his daughter's fiancé, Captain Matthew Blackwood."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback to help me improve this story is greatly appreciated.


	4. A Tangle of Threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Holmes gets a new case, and Watson knocks things over.

"Holmes," I said, trying to keep a lid on my shock. "They were—we were just—"

"I am aware of it, Watson," Holmes replied, his eyes darkening like steel as they often did when first a crime was brought to his attention. "Our levity seems to have been rather ill-timed." He turned to Lestrade. "When is this murder said to have occurred?"

"Last night, around two o'clock," Lestrade replied. "I left all the evidence completely in place, in case you wished to examine it for yourself before you join us on our hunt."

"What hunt?" Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Are not you getting a little ahead of yourself, Lestrade? Watson and I have an engagement for this afternoon that we cannot neglect."

"Mr. Holmes, I know the official force has no authority over you, but someone must locate Captain Blackwood. There is strong evidence to suggest that he is the culprit, and if so, we have a dangerous murderer walking free in London."

"And if he is not?"

"I hardly think that is possible, given what we know."

Holmes threw his cigar into the fire. "As I believe I've said before, there is nothing more deceptive than the obvious fact. That being so, I think we can spare you a few hours before our other appointment. You have a cab downstairs, I presume?"

"Yes, I told him to wait."

"Then, Watson, if you would be so kind as to come along, we will be very happy to view the scene of this simple crime."

The distance between Baker Street and the Ashley household was not far, but nevertheless, I was surprised that Holmes did not ask Lestrade for one particular of the murder. Rather he sat in silence, and as he had no clues to ponder yet as to this new case, I concluded that he must be absorbed in unraveling that of the bridal shop.

"Any new leads on Miss Larch's case, Holmes? Do you think the man Jones arrested is the vandal?"

"What?" Holmes jerked up. "The drunken man, you mean? Oh, no, no, I'm sure he's innocent. Even if it weren't for our bird-like friend's clever deduction with regard to the newspaper, there are several objections. A drunkard would not exercise discretion over which dresses he ruined. And if he was out for revenge, as the energetic Jones supposes, he picked the worse possible night for it. No, my friend, I must confess that I am encamped in the Callie Larch court, and believe both the man and the motive are yet to be discovered."

"I say, Mr. Holmes, what's this all about? Newspaper? Dresses? And who is Miss Larch?"

"Our client. No doubt you would consider her problem beneath your attention. I see we've arrived."

"So we have. Pull up, man, we're here!"

Holmes barely waited for the cab to stop moving before he jumped out of it and sprang up the stairs. I followed hastily, leaving Lestrade to deal with the fare.

The very air inside the house seemed clouded with grief and utter confusion. I saw no one, servant or otherwise, who did not seem weighed down with horror by the recent tragedy. I instantly felt boorish and out-of-place for daring to trespass on their pain, but no such sentiments impeded my companion. On the contrary, his whole body had taken on that air of mirror-clear energy and adrenaline that seemed all the more intense from being held so firmly in control, all the supposed stagnation of his mind swept away.

"It's just this, Watson," he said, giving the knocker a strong thud. "All my instincts are screaming, but instinct is not enough. I need data; I _must_ have data, anything and everything I can find. The smallest bit of evidence could be the most important, and it is that kind which so many leave out. I hope…" He broke off as an elderly, lace-bonneted woman who I presumed to be the housekeeper joined us in the alcove. "Good morning, madam. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. John Watson. I quite understand that this must be a difficult time for you, but—"

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, if you can just find the scoundrel who murdered my master and good Reynolds, nothing I can do for you will be too much. I've heard something of your skill, and there's not a man or woman in this household who would stand in your way. Mr. Ashley was the best master and the best father anyone could have, sir, and poor Reynolds would never hurt a fly."

"We will certainly do our best," Holmes replied, "and our progress will be made most rapidly if we may view the scenes of the murders. Will you be so kind as to direct us there?"

"Just step up the stairs and through that door, sir, to the hall. You can't miss it. That's where we found Reynolds's body. We were going to have it sent away, sir, but Mr. Lestrade insisted—"

"Yes, and he was quite right to do so. Well, Watson, let us investigate."

As the housekeeper had said, the door led to a dark wood hall, upon the floor of which lay the body of the unfortunate footman. It was a gruesome sight. Blood sprayed from two gunshot wounds in his stomach, and his body was wracked with contortions. Holmes immediately began his usual meticulous process of examination, while I stood out of the way, anxious not to inadvertently destroy any traces left by the criminal. I did not, however, have long to wait. Holmes finished his overview of the body quickly and straightened up.

"There are really no indications as to the identity of the culprit. He, if it is a man, and I am inclined to believe it was so, is a gentleman, unless the wounds are a blind."

"Wounds?"

"Made by a light pistol. Impractical weapons, by the way. Half the time, they misfire and barely leave a scratch the other half of the time—except, of course, when fired from close range, as this obviously was. _Very_ close, actually, if one notes the residue of smoke on this unfortunate Reynolds's jacket."

"The man and his murderer grappled at close range, then?"

"Exactly, which theory is strengthened by the bruises on the arm—" he pulled back the sleeve to reveal them to me "—and the scratches on the face. In which case, the question becomes which man was the aggressor."

"It seems odd that a man without a gun would attack an armed man."

"Not if the gun was hidden, or the motivation strong enough. Well, I believe there is nothing more to be learned here, so let us examine the other victim."

"Strangled in his bed, the poor man!" interrupted the housekeeper. "I am sure I do not know who would have the heart to do it."

"Strangled, you say?" Holmes demanded, shooting a sharp glance at the woman.

"Without a doubt," Lestrade, who had caught up with us, informed him, "as you will see for yourself."

The room we entered seemed more eerie to me by its very peacefulness. The only sign of violence at all was the man lying dead on the bed, his empty eyes staring up; looking not so much angered or frightened but grieved. But perhaps that was my imagination only.

Holmes took a far longer time examining this room than the other, his eyes darting over every atom, searching, analyzing, alighting on those small clues that were invisible to our eyes. After examining the body and the rest of the room carefully, he ushered us all into the hall before turning to the housekeeper.

"Now, madam, I would like to speak with those who found the bodies. I trust, Lestrade, that you have questioned the others in the house."

"That's right, Mr. Holmes. Not all were awake at the time of the murders, but all those who were give the same testimony—gunshots at around two in the morning, which of course must have been the death of that poor fellow downstairs."

"Did no one hear anything earlier?"

"No, I don't believe so. Should they have?"

"Well, Mr. Ashley here ended his life a good ten minutes before his servant. I would have thought it possible, at the very least, that someone might have heard him, had he cried out."

"What! Ten minutes?"

"Oh, come. The crudest medical examination could tell you that. The only thing that is really puzzling is Edward Ashley's cigars."

"Cigars?" Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You don't say."

Holmes waved a hand. "You wouldn't understand. It is those who found the bodies I now desire to speak with."

"That'd be Miss Deborah and her brother Ned, sir," broke in the housekeeper. "They're in the upper sitting room. I'll just show you the way."

"Thank you very much, madam. Watson," he added in a lower voice to me as we crossed to a door opposite, "if you think I trespass on their grief too much, please remember that clients do not come to me for sympathy—and if I go too far, just knock over something not too delicate, and I'll back off."

I was not able to concoct an answer to this paradoxical statement (and indeed, I am not sure Holmes wanted one) before the housekeeper opened the door and showed us into the room where the brother and sister sat awaiting us.

The latter was very pale; she had obviously been badly affected by the shock, but held herself with determined self-possession. (And I shall dare Holmes's criticism to say that she was a lovely woman, with delicate white skin and shining black hair, though farther I will not go.) Her brother, on the other hand, looked nearly sick enough to break down at any moment, his eyes hollow and his hands twitching like spiders.

"Good morning, Miss Ashley, Mr. Ashley. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson. Please do accept my condolences on your loss, and please forgive me if, in my determination to obtain information about your father's death, I am sometimes more blunt than is proper for the occasion."

"We are hardly in a position to demand propriety, Mr. Holmes," Miss Deborah Ashley replied. "If you can merely locate the person who murdered our father, then that is manners enough to suit me." Her brother, from the couch, nodded jerkily.

"Very well, Miss Ashley. I am glad to see you so resolute. Please describe then, in as much detail as you can, what happened last night and anything you have seen or heard that might give some clue as to the motive or identity of your unpleasant visitor." I settled myself with one elbow next to a sturdy-looking bronze statue as Holmes leaned forward to listen.

"You should understand first of all, Mr. Holmes, that our father has—had, rather—no public enemies, and no private ones either, that I know of. He had no temper to speak of, he had no more rivals for his money than any man in trade—in short, nothing that I can think of that would breed hostility. Of course, I am not as familiar with Reynolds, but he has been here for a number of years and as far as I can tell, his situation is much the same.

"Last night, Mr. Holmes, my father and I spent the night in this very room, discussing the preparations for my wedding. My brother Ned here had taken Matthew—my fiancé, Captain Blackwood—out for some traditional masculine entertainment, which he can tell you about as I have no knowledge of what went on. Father and I both retired to bed early, as it was not his custom to sit up late, and I amused myself with reading until I grew tired and put out my lamp—I believe at about ten o'clock. I slipped in to check on Father just before that, as I have nearly every night since Mother died and more frequently since I knew I would be going away. He has a bell to ring if his asthma gets worse at night, but he doesn't—didn't—use it as much as he should."

"A moment." Holmes held up a hand to halt Miss Ashley's story. "Your father suffered from asthma?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. It's never been terribly troublesome to him, but then again, he always took such great care, and it has gotten worse with age. The servants and I could care for him well enough, so we never saw a need to hire a nurse."

"But he does not smoke cigars, then?"

"No, Mr. Holmes."

"That is odd. Does anyone in this house smoke, perhaps leaving a yellow-orange ash?"

"I don't think so, Mr. Holmes. The servants all smoke outside, due to my father's asthma."

"I see. Please go on."

The young lady paused, and then plunged forward. "I must admit, Mr. Holmes, that I cannot be sure of what I heard next. I woke up late at night, around one, I think, and thought I heard footsteps in the hall near my father's room. I thought at the time that it must have been Ned, and that he wanted to check on Father too, but as you will see, that could not have been. Well, I went back to sleep, but I was awakened not an hour later by two shots, a scream, and the sound of a door slamming. I jumped up and ran downstairs and saw…Reynolds' body…with Ned bending over him, trying to revive him. He was writhing around, trying to get his breath…and I went to try and help but by the time I got close he'd stopped moving altogether. Then Ned jumped up and shouted, 'Matthew! The scoundrel! Quick, Deborah, Father—see if Father's alright!' I barely knew what to think, Mr. Holmes, but we flew back upstairs, the two of us, and there was Father…just lying there, so still…and at first I thought, the asthma, of course, but then I got close and saw the finger-marks around his throat, and then I, well, I think I would have fainted, but…."

"You put your hand out to catch yourself, and it landed on the hot wax in the blown-out candle, did you not?"

Mr. Ashley sat bolt upright and Miss Ashley gave my friend an astonished look. "Why, yes, I did, and that startled me right up. And then Ned told me Matthew had done it, and shot Reynolds too, and I…well, Mr. Holmes, I just couldn't believe it. I still cannot, to say the truth. That Matthew would do such a thing goes against everything I know of his character. He's an upright, honest man, and he loved Father dearly. But when Ned opened the door, there was Matthew's pistol right on the doorstep. I would have known it anywhere, the silly thing, more fit to hang on the wall than to shoot with. A friend bought a pair of them for him as a joke; I'd never known him to even take them out of the attic. But there it was, and I've just been so confused and horrified since I can barely think. And Mr. Holmes, I beg of you, if Matthew is the murderer, find him and I would gladly shoot him myself, but if you believe him to be innocent, do all you can to save him, and I promise you, you shall be well rewarded."

"Money is of no consequence, Miss Ashley, so please do not worry about it now. You have given me excellent information, and what I want now is your brother's story. Mr. Ashley, if you will?"

The sick-looking man gave a horrid start. "I suppose it's necessary," he said after a pause, "though you'll understand if I find it hard to speak of."

"If your sister can speak of the matter," Holmes returned, "then I believe it not unreasonable to ask the same of you. Proceed, please."

"Well. Yes. My sister, she—she said we'd gone out that night, Matthew and I and some of his friends. Any of them will tell you we were there. And—well, I do hate to say this, Deborah, for your sake, but Matthew, he wasn't the least bit like himself. Perhaps it was my fault, a bit, for I did give him more drink than he usually touches, but—he was acting so oddly, messing around with one of those whores the best places can't seem to drive away—"

I was nearly tempted to knock over the bronze statuette as a punishment to Ned Ashley rather than a warning to Sherlock Holmes when I saw how white Miss Ashley became upon that statement, but I resisted.

"—and so finally I said, I said, Matthew, you're not acting like yourself, it's time to head for home. And so we stopped at my house first, and—"

"What establishment was it that you were frequenting that night?" interrupted Holmes from behind his steeple of fingers.

"Lilac Maria's, sir, is what they call it. And when we got into my house, Matthew said he wanted to check on my father, so we went upstairs and he went in while I waited, and a few minutes later he came running back out pale as a ghost, heading straight for the door, and poor Reynolds was just walking through and slammed right into him. In a second he had his gun out and shot the man down, and fled right down the stairs and out the door. And Deborah told you all the rest."

In the wake of this disjointed narrative, Holmes's eyes had acquired the far-off, dreamy look which meant he was searching for some explanation to ravel the fragmented information into smooth and sensible exposition. The sister and brother were both watching him, the one quite still and pale, the other twitching and equally bloodless, but he seemed to have no intention of coming out of his brown study. I was about to knock over the statue to try and get his attention when he sat up abruptly and turned to Mr. Ashley.

"Sir. Did you see nothing odd in your sister's fiancé going up to check on your father?"

"Well, he's an old friend of the family—I mean, I suppose I was a little surprised, but—"

"And when he came out of your father's room, you saw nothing suspicious in his looks that might have made you wish to stop him?"

"I really could not see him in the dark. I wasn't aware anything was wrong until he bumped into Reynolds and shot him."

"You say so. Why did you not pursue Captain Blackwood after he shot your servant?"

"I wanted to help Reynolds, sir. I didn't know the wounds were fatal—I thought there might be some chance of reviving him."

"I see. Now, Miss Ashley, there are just a few more points on which I should like your opinion. You say the pistol found belonged to your fiancé?"

"Yes, or as near to it as any I have ever seen. Since he never used the pistols, there were no distinct scratches or anything, so I'm not positive."

"Is there any reason you know of that Captain Blackwood would believe himself in danger?"

"No, Mr. Holmes. And I am sure if he did, he would have chosen something more substantial to carry."

"Curious, indeed. And you, Mr. Ashley? Did anything in Captain Blackwood's behavior alarm you?"

"Well, sir, I don't like to speak of it before my sister, but there was his odd behavior at Lilac Maria's, and, well, he's been funny around me for awhile."

"How so?"

"Well, just a sort of general—he'd say ugly things about Deborah and how matrimony tied a man down—and how if one had to marry, one shouldn't have to keep a sick old man around—"

"I don't believe it," whispered Miss Ashley. "Ned, why didn't you tell me? We could have prevented this!"

Ned Ashley leaped to his feet. "Don't you dare blame me, Deborah! You're the one who decided to marry a womanizer and a murderer. It's just as much your fault as mine! You—"

It is unfortunate that tables with bronze statues on them have such a tendency to be unstable. They fall over at the most irritating moments, and make such loud distracting crashes.

"Dear me," Holmes remarked laconically.

"I apologize, Miss Ashley," I said, righting the table.

Miss Ashley was, if possible, even paler than before, but she kept her temper remarkably. "There is no need to be sorry, Dr. Watson, as the statue was not damaged. If it survived the voyage from India, a fall from a table could hardly do harm."

Holmes looked up abruptly. "You have contacts in India?"

"Yes. We even lived there for awhile. Father was in the spices trade before his asthma compelled us to come back to England."

Briskly, Holmes put the statue back in its proper place. "Well, our little talk here has been most instructive. I should like to speak to Lestrade, I think, before we go, and I or Watson will be sure to tell you if anything new is discovered. Good morning, Miss Ashley, Mr. Ashley." And I found myself bustled out of the room with hardly time to fix the bronze statue I had upset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback of any kind is greatly appreciated.


	5. Lace and Lilacs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Holmes and Watson discover that strange things happen in bridal shops.

Holmes and I were pounced upon by Lestrade the moment we left the Ashley siblings. The man had been apparently searching around the house, for he was excessively splattered with the mud not yet gone from the paths.

"Well, Holmes, what do you make of it?"

"The evidence is certainly strong against that unfortunate young man, Captain Blackwood," Holmes remarked imperturbably.

"Then you will join me in locating him?"

"My dear Lestrade! I have no time."

Lestrade blinked. "No time?"

"Indeed. Watson and I have an appointment at twelve o'clock sharp."

"And what, may I ask, engages your attention so far it will not allow you to give your attentions to tracking a desperate and dangerous murderer?"

Holmes turned from the gate, where he had just succeeded in hailing a cab. "I must visit a bridal shop, of course. Good day, Lestrade!"

It was a credit to my friend that he managed to get us both into the cab before Lestrade stopped sputtering, as I am sure whatever intelligible words he managed to get out would have been slightly less than Christian. Holmes settled comfortably into a corner after directing the cabman.

"You may congratulate yourself, Watson, on your impeccable timing in terms of that sturdy little statue, while I reflect on what ought to be done next."

"Do you really intend to still go see Miss Larch, Holmes?"

"Obviously," Holmes replied dryly. "I have no desire to irk our irrepressible client. Besides, sometimes what the mind needs is refreshing work on some other subject. During the course of this afternoon, for example, I may become enlightened as to why the polite and pleasant Mr. Ned Ashley found it necessary to tell me so many implausible lies. I do not like being lied to at the best of times, but it really is irritating when untruths are so carelessly constructed."

"His story was pretty odd, wasn't it?"

"Contrived, Watson, very contrived, though I suppose there is probably some truth mixed in. It is altogether likely, for example, that he did go to Lilac Maria's with Captain Blackwood. Not the most cheerful house of loose women in the world, by the way. But as to the rest, it is full of holes. There is the hot candle wax, and the dropping of the pistol, and the sounds Miss Ashley heard earlier that night, and, most odd of all, the slamming of the door."

"The murder could not have been premeditated, in any case. Perhaps in his intoxication the Captain became confused and violent. There are some precedents—"

"Come, come, Watson. Imagine for a moment that you were Captain Blackwood. What would be required of you if this story was true? You go out carrying a clumsy pistol, despite being a military man and anticipating a celebratory evening. You go upstairs to check on your future father-in-law, decide on a whim to strangle him even though you could shoot him far more easily, when you know your future brother-in-law is outside the door and your fiancée is a room over. Then you shoot the footman for no reason, run outside, _take the time to drop your incriminating pistol and slam the door behind you,_ and dash away. Also, there's the interesting fact that, according to Ned Ashley it was too dark to see if Captain Blackwood was distraught, but light enough to see that he was as pale as a ghost."

"So you believe, then, that Mr. Ashley was actually not present at the time of the murder?"

"It is very possible. But I see no motive. He may be shielding someone, though who that might be I have no idea. Or he may merely wish, for reasons of his own, to throw suspicion on Captain Blackwood, about whom, I fear, we have almost no reliable data. But I think—yes, we're here. Stop, driver!"

Holmes and I disembarked from the cab and crossed around to the side door. I could not help but smirk as I noticed him wincing at the fantastical displays of lace and silk in the front window.

"Come now, Holmes. Merely looking at a wedding dress is not sufficient to involve you in one of those entanglements you so dread."

"Pardon me? I do not _dread_ entanglements, nor will I have you espousing me in your lurid romantic literature as being afraid of a wedding dress."

"Even if it's true?" I murmured as we found ourselves surrounded by a mist of white fabrics, bouquets of ribbons, and pretty chattering girls. I snorted at Holmes's look of utter terror as the latter descended upon us like locusts in lace. "I suppose this is that one place in London you fear, is that right?" I found myself firmly in the charge of a young shop-girl with a most determined expression, while Holmes sneezed repeatedly as several artificial flowers were thrust into his face.

"You're a fool if you're _not_ scared right now," called a familiar voice over the bobbing heads. "Get out of that spider's web quick, or you may find that you've acquired lace on your cravat and switched clothes with your wife."

"I'm not married!" Holmes shouted back. "And neither is Watson."

"Engaged, then?" replied a new voice from the same general area. "Where are the ladies?"

If possible, Holmes's face got even redder. "I'm _not_ engaged!"

"If they're not engaged, Callie Bird, then why on earth are they here, of all places?" demanded another new voice.

"Because Mr. Holmes here loves danger, and bridal shops are the most dangerous places in London, bless their hearts," replied Miss Larch cheerfully as she elbowed several walking lace aprons out of her way and let the two of us escape. "Excellent, you're here. Some of the ladies are claiming that torn wedding gowns in the fitting room will curse their marital bliss." Grabbing our elbows, she pulled us over to a set of three chairs where sat the owners of the two voices we had previously heard. One was blond with china-blue eyes, a delicate smile and particularly capable hands, the other thin and flame-like, with black hair and shining brown eyes. "This is Miss Mary Morstan—" the former lady gave us a small wave "—and Miss Kitty Winter." The other nodded at the two of us with interest. "They're going to keep our lovely companions from utterly swarming you while you keep an eye on the data. Mary, Kitty, this is Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. They're going to perform an exorcism in our fitting room so it isn't cursed any longer."

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," Miss Winter said briskly. "Don't worry, we know who you are. Callie filled us in."

"We're happy to help in any way we can," added Miss Morstan a little shyly.

"Then please keep that— _mob_ —off us!"

"Holmes, really!" I turned to the ladies. "Thank you both. I believe that we could use some assistance in, well—"

"Keeping that mob off you," Miss Larch finished mischievously. "You up to it, girls?"

"Of course." Miss Morstan descended on the group of girls, followed rapidly by Miss Winter. I am not sure of the nature of the distraction that followed, but it was certainly effective in shifting attention away from us and onto some outer spectacle. Miss Larch beckoned us hastily through a nearby door and into a spacious fitting room stacked high with fabrics and patterns, from which there emerged one of those distinguished elderly women who make it a point of pride to look ten years younger than their daughters.

"I must thank you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, for coming," she said in a slightly French accent. "I suppose the event may be of little importance to you, but it is rather disturbing to all of us here. I am Madame Revel. You must excuse my not greeting you; I in no way expected you would come so quickly. I suppose I have my Miss Larch to thank for that?"

I hastily interjected my greetings rather loudly in an attempt to cover up Holmes's mutterings of "insufferable bits of fluff" and other things of that sort. I succeeded as far as the lady was concerned, but heard repressed squeaks of mirth from Miss Larch's direction.

At a discreet elbow from me, Holmes made his bow to the lady and promptly strolled over to the corner where the incident had obviously reached its climax. I smiled apologetically at Madame Revel and followed close behind, only to have Holmes stop so suddenly that I walked right into him.

"Here now, Holmes, what are you—"

"And you have the nerve to suggest that _we_ are planning to perform an exorcism in this room?" the detective demanded, spinning in Miss Larch's direction. "Please tell me that is not real blood."

Craning my neck around Holmes, I saw that the area was surrounded by a carefully formed pentagram in some red and sticky substance. "You didn't mention the satanic ritual when you called, Miss Larch."

"It was not a satanic ritual," Miss Larch retorted. "If I ever wished to conduct such a thing, you may be sure I will use actual blood, not butter dyed red. And if you can think of a better way to keep ten curious girls away from a crime scene, do let me know."

Holmes rolled his eyes. "I suppose simply asking them wouldn't have worked?"

"Not a snowball's chance in Hell. You really don't know much about young women, do you, Mr. Holmes?"

"I should have included that in the list I made of your limits, Holmes," I interjected, chuckling. "'Knowledge of the fair sex—biased and unsystematic."

Holmes looked up briefly from his examination. "What happened to your unadulterated admiration of my skills, Watson?"

"Frankly, my dear fellow, you should take it as a compliment that I was able to fit all your limits into one list," I replied absently as I observed the wreckage from over his shoulder. It was (apart from the "blood") arranged exactly as Miss Larch had told us, but as I observed Holmes's piercing gaze rove over it, I could tell that this apparently unimportant case had thoroughly captured his interest, and catalogued the thought away to ponder another time. I was not yet accustomed to the fact that Holmes would gladly abandon a serious murder for a minor act of vandalism.

Handling the wreaths of silk that had once been bridal gowns as if they were somewhat rotten specimens in his laboratory, my companion plucked the cloth from the ground and examined it thoroughly. The first two dresses were tossed aside impatiently; the third, however, he retained with a small exclamation of triumph. It would have been obvious to the most casual of observers that he had been looking for something, and had found it.

Once his conclusion was drawn, Holmes did not linger over the gowns. He paused as he rose, frowned in consternation, and promptly sneezed several times with more force than was his wont.

"Now, really, Mr. Holmes," Miss Larch interjected as my friend wiped his streaming eyes on his sleeve, "has not your friend the doctor warned you about the dangers of indoor snowstorms? After that display in your rooms yesterday, I am not surprised to see you have caught cold."

"I assure you, Miss Larch, that I have done nothing of the kind," Holmes retorted. "I am merely highly allergic to establishments that contain bridal finery." Yanking at his coat pocket for a handkerchief, he pulled out an artificial flower and thrust it away with a snarl. "Watson, would you—"

I handed over my handkerchief and glanced at Madame Revel. "Don't take offence. He's like this with everyone."

"Why don't you go out front, Madame?" Miss Larch chimed in. "That'll be Lady Belmont at the door now. That dragon is the only one who can make the girls quiet down even a touch."

"An excellent idea, if you will look after our visitors, Callie." With a nod the woman sailed from the room.

"Watson!" Holmes ejaculated loudly. "This handkerchief has _lace_ on it!"

"No, it—that's not mine! How did it get in my sleeve?"

"Workplace hazard," Miss Larch put in cheerily. "Do let me know if you find that string of artificial pearls in your other sleeve when you get home tonight. It's been missing for weeks."

"Never mind the handkerchief, Holmes, what do you make of this business?" I gestured at the fraying mess in the corner.

"I think perhaps I should first ask Miss Larch if there is any information she is keeping from us."

Miss Larch lifted one eyebrow. "Perhaps you _should,_ but I'd advise against it, nevertheless."

"That is a suspicious answer, Miss Larch."

"It was made to fit a suspicious question, Mr. Holmes."

"Come now, what's this all about?" I broke in.

Holmes had begun to pace, and though his face remained as calm as ever his stance had changed to what I am almost tempted to describe as a prowl. "Let us be clear once and for all—this is not vandalism. No vandal is so precise. The man who broke into this shop, then. Not a tall man, nor particularly short, as evidenced by the footprints he left upon this carpet. Carries a penknife, for that is what these dresses were slashed with, and right-handed, for all these dresses were slashed from that side. The cigars he smoke leave a yellow ash. He wears strong eyeglasses, which at some point last night were broken and mixed with the window glass you gave me yesterday. He entered this shop with a duplicate key, removed his shoes and put on those of the drunkard, came into this room, and proceeded to distinguish by touch these three dresses. He slashed the first two and was about to finish the third when he was interrupted by a second intruder. They fought, and one at least was cut in the scuffle. At any rate, our intruder fled, though whether the second man or woman pursued him I know not, and having partially shattered his glasses in the struggle, found exiting the door somewhat difficult, to the extent of putting his key through the pane of the door instead of the keyhole. Exit he did, however, and fled. More than that I cannot tell you. But there is one point, Miss Larch, which strikes me very hard. In your exhaustively detailed description yesterday, you failed to state anything about the yellow ash next to these gowns, or the _genuine_ blood which any chemist could see clearly is here. You also took some care to conceal it from both your fellow workers and me. Please, explain yourself."

"I forgot," Miss Larch said glibly.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "You forgot."

"Well, I can hardly be expected to remember every detail, can I? Isn't that your job?"

"I find it very odd that the two items you supposedly forgot are the ones you took the most pains to hide."

"Obviously I didn't hide them, as you found them." Miss Larch waved a hand. "I don't see why you're kicking up such a fuss."

"This is nothing compared to the fuss I will make if you are withholding information that could be vital to this case," Holmes informed her.

"Some client I'd be then. I'm not."

"Your friend called you a bird. I merely hope you are not planning to be one in another sense of the word."

Miss Larch turned red, face twisting in anger. I frowned. "Holmes, what are you talking about? Miss Larch, what—?"

Before either of them could respond, however, Miss Morstan hurried up to us. "Mr. Holmes, there's a Scotland Yard inspector here. He says he has to—"

Lestrade burst into the room. "I really must insist that you accompany me! There is no time to waste on trifles like this!"

"Now, Lestrade, do not overexcite yourself. I was only keeping my appointment with our bird-like friend."

"Look here, Mr. Holmes. Just because you've helped me out at the Yard a few times, mostly correcting the mistakes that idiot Gregson made, I might add, doesn't mean you've the right to make fun of me. I ask your assistance in tracking a dangerous killer and find you investigating what is undoubtedly a crime of passion and referring to your client as a bird—"

"You mean the inspectors of Scotland Yard don't listen to the chirping of the sweet little birds in the summer? No wonder you can't solve anything."

 _"Mr. Holmes—_ _"_

"And yet," my perhaps-friend continued imperturbably, "perhaps you are right, seeing as Miss Larch here is neither sweet nor little, though she is arguably chirping, and it is only the beginning of summer. June, actually, if Watson is to be believed."

I think Lestrade very nearly joined Captain Blackwood in the ranks of accused murderers at that point. "Do you want me to arrest you for obstructing police procedure?"

"You're on shaky legal ground there, my good sir." Holmes glanced at the two seamstresses, Miss Larch looking irritated and Miss Morstan puzzled. "Nevertheless, I think there is little more to be learned here, so I suppose we might as well—Watson, what is that on your shoe?"

I glanced down at my footwear in surprise. "A great deal of mud. No doubt it hides some clue I am unaware of."

"Oh, the mud is of no consequence. But I find it interesting that you have a sprig of lilac flowers stuck to your heel, when there are none hereabouts. Were it an artificial flower, I should think it likely you acquired it in this shop, from which I beg a just and merciful God to deliver me, but there's no point in sewing real flowers to a gown."

"Holmes, if I am driven to an asylum it will be on your head!" broke in Lestrade with some bitterness. "How can such trifles have meaning?"

I need not recount the argument that took place here. Suffice to say that it occupied the entire trip back to the Ashley house, contained eleven theories on why the lilac sprig on my shoe might be of consequence, four references to a monogram on flower arrangement and its usefulness in cipher formation that Holmes seemed to assume (wrongly) that we had both read, and at least twenty-three very un-Christian words uttered by our long-suffering friend the Inspector, who had to tolerate the final indignity of having his opponent abandon the field and stroll towards the gate.

"How do you put up with him?" Lestrade moaned. "The man may be a genius but it's just not natural to be so paranoid about condolence bouquets! Poison ivy, indeed."

I was about to give some non-committal reply when a shout came from the gate. "Watson! Come here, man, quick!"

But before I could free myself from the confines of horse and cab, I heard the crack of two shots and a yell of pain. Panic seized me and I ran for the gate, my vision narrowing to see only it. Shouts echoed from up the path to the house and someone tried to grab my arm, but none of it meant anything. The sound of a fired gun had thrown my mind back into the Afghanistan desert, but now I had ten times more to lose. _Holmes, where are you?_

My terror was so very great that when I saw my only maybe-friend kneeling in the garden, crouched over a writhing body, I did not at first register that he was safe. "Holmes! Holmes, are you alright?" I grabbed his shoulder.

Holmes pulled away impatiently. "Of course I'm alright, Watson. Don't be so paranoid. I wasn't born yesterday."

Stung, I fell back. The adrenaline was still whirling in my brain. I knew that in a few minutes it would wear off, leaving me tired and hard pressed to think straight, but anything was better than my mind screaming at me to prepare to survive the apocalypse. I took a few breaths to expedite the process, and looked at the now-still murdered man for some distraction.

And it was not the two shots in his chest that made my jaw drop in astonishment. The man lying before was neither tall nor short, clutched an open penknife in his right hand, had a smear of yellow-orange ash on his coat sleeve, and was wearing a pair of very new eyeglasses. And I had little doubt that, were I to search his pockets, I would find in them an iron copy of a bridal shop key.

"Well, my dear Watson," Holmes said at last, "this is, I am compelled to say, not the least bit elementary."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I greatly appreciate feedback of any kind.


	6. Torn and Scattered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Holmes is unnecessarily arrogant, and Watson gets into a fight.

"What's not elementary?" Lestrade demanded, hurrying to catch up with me. "And why is there an artificial flower sticking out of your pocket?" 

I looked from Holmes to the body to the house, and back at Holmes. "This can't possibly be a coincidence."

"No. Lestrade, this man has been murdered with the same or similar gun that killed the footman. I think we may now say there is a strong possibility that Captain Blackwood committed neither crime."

"What?" Lestrade stared at Holmes blankly. "Captain Blackwood innocent, when you've just identified his gun as the one to commit the murder? Are you crazy?"

"If the Captain did murder those two unfortunates earlier, and is idiot enough to come back here and commit a third murder in the garden of the same house, I would say he's the one who's crazy," Holmes replied dryly. "Either that or playing for extraordinarily high stakes."

"You don't think Miss Larch had anything to do with this, do you?" I asked anxiously. "I mean, if the vandalism and the murder are related, she'd hardly call us in to view the vandalism, would she?"

"I don't presume to know the reason Miss Larch does anything, Watson. That would be tempting Fate. As much as I enjoy playing Russian roulette with that particular entity, this whole situation seems even less predictable than a loaded gun right now."

"You mean to say you have no idea why she tried to hide the blood and yellow ash?"

"Many. All equally unlikely." Holmes had turned to the body and was ransacking the coat, fingers flipping pockets up and down and pinching up and down the seams. "Well, he carries cards for one Zachariah Cargan. You might want to look up his relatives, Lestrade. Upon a second examination, it appears that this yellow-orange powder is not, in fact, cigar ash. Well, that clears up one point, at least. Give me just a—now, what do we have here?" Out of the victim's waistcoat pocket came several torn papers printed with official looking charts and dotted with neat handwriting. "Unless I am very much mistaken—Watson, do you have that paper Miss Larch gave us, the list of the people who ordered the cream bridal gowns?"

"Yes, here they are. Holmes, why—"

"You will recall, Watson, that I dislike being interrupted. Now," he straightened from his crouching position "you and I have some calls to make."

"Mr. Holmes, this is really too much!" Lestrade was reaching the end of his patience (a quality he had always been a little short on). "I insist you help me locate Captain Blackwood!" He fumbled in his pocket. "There's a likeness of him here—if you will please—"

"Lestrade, that's a terrible idea!" I broke in. "Neither of us are armed, and whoever it is has killed three people in twenty-four hours. And if that bridal shop case is connected with those murders, Holmes, we really shouldn't be investigating that either until—"

Holmes glanced behind him with a sneer. "Oh, this is too much. I no sooner get used to Scotland Yard's blundering idiocy then I am expected to tolerate the same quality in my immediate associates? Form your own theories then, Watson, let's see how far you get on your own, and I will do the same." Before I could so much as open my mouth to respond, he was in the cab we had come in and had disappeared down the street.

His abrupt departure was worse than if he had backhanded me across the face.

"Geniuses," Lestrade muttered. "Don't know why you spend more time with that arrogant man than you have to."

I opened my mouth, realized I was about to defend my flat-mate, and shut it again, cursing Holmes for inspiring this stupid protectiveness in me even when he had made it clear he did not need it. "Could I have the likeness, in any case?" I asked, changing the subject hastily. "It's possible Holmes will want it later." Unlikely, but I had my own reasons for wanting the thing. Innocent or otherwise, if I saw this man in the next few days I wasn't going to let him anywhere near Holmes.

Lestrade shrugged and handed the picture over. "Do as you will. I'd ask you to join the hunt in any case, but with that shoulder and the bad leg of yours…you understand…"

"Of course," I replied, my brisk smile a little overly bright. I understood very well, understood that I was both an idiot and a cripple, and of little use in bringing anyone to justice. It seemed others shared Dr. Emerson's view of my ultimate helpfulness. "I'll just be off home, then."

"Wait a minute, I didn't—"

I limped away to hail a cab, not giving him the chance to finish. Once ensconced inside with the driver aimed towards Baker Street, I sat back and wished bitterly that I had not thought to stray out of my sphere, which was obviously out of the way of competent people.

I snapped some unjust comment at Mrs. Hudson and made my way up the stairs. Once in my rooms, I sloshed some whiskey into a glass and downed it. Yes, that was a good idea. Well, if I wished to get drunk, I might as well be comfortable. I removed my hat and went to pull off my coat.

Something fell out of my sleeve, something long and thin. For a moment I froze, irrationally believing there was a snake on my arm, but that was ridiculous. In fact, it was...

A string of pearl beads. In my sleeve. That Miss Larch.

I felt my face break into a sort of half-smile. She did have rather a sense of humour. I almost turned around to tell Holmes the same before I realized he was not there.

The idea of drinking alone no longer felt appealing. Yes, that was it. I would go out, and if I had time afterwards, I would return the lost pearl beads to their owner in the bridal shop. I placed the string in my pocket and went back outside.

"Where you off to, sir?" the driver inquired of me.

I realized promptly that I did not know. I had frequented public houses occasionally before moving in with Sherlock Holmes, but those were all too costly for me now. "I want somewhere to drink, not too expensive. Where would you suggest?"

"Well, sir, you think you could narrow it down a bit? This is London, after all. You can't turn around without tripping over a pub." A thought struck him. "You'll be wanting somewhere with women, maybe?"

I was about to respond indignantly that I had no interest in such recreation (not that, if I had, I would have had money to indulge in it), but then recalled Holmes's extreme aversion to the fairer sex. Were he to stop nearby for a drink, as unlikely as that was, he would certainly avoid any place frequented by prostitutes.

"Yes, I want somewhere with women," I informed the driver. "Lots of women, mind. The more the better."

My driver chuckled. "I know where you want, then," he replied, starting his horse.

Not long after, we arrived, and I paid the driver, who pointed me in the right direction. "Just down that way, sir." He indicated his horse. "Frank and I sure do thank you for your generosity…"

The rest of his words, if he uttered any, were lost on me. I was staring at the sign that hung from the establishment I had been taken to.

Lilac Maria's.

"Sir?" The cab driver leaned over from his seat. "Sir, you all right?"

"Fine. Yes, yes, I'm fine. Thank you."

As the cab dashed away I considered. Why should I not go to drink here? Merely because it had coincidentally housed the unfortunate Captain Blackwood, Mr. Ned Ashley, and their fellow carousers was no reason to suppose the place cursed. I heard Holmes's voice for a moment in my head, insisting that there was no such thing as a coincidence, but I shoved it aside. Holmes had made it clear he did not want my advice. Why should I take his? Especially when it was imagined.

I entered, and found myself for the second time that day surrounded by specimens of young and attractive women. But the giggling and virginal bridal shop attendants were a far cry from these slips of girls, with their deliberately turned hips and empty eyes. I got out of the crowd as fast as I could and informed the bartender that I wanted a drink. This was apparently not an unusual request—if I had been in my proper mind, I would have recalled that many gentlemen who came here would have required a drink or two to get their nerve up—because the girls merely fell back a few steps, watching me with hungry looks that spoke much about their usual clientele, if they regarded me as such a prize.

I don't know how long I sat in that den, ordering drink after drink until my money was nearly gone. The noise picked up as the evening customers got off work and came pouring in, until the place was filled with barely muted roars and groans. Even drunk as I was, I felt rather uncomfortable and decided it was time to go. Unfortunately, the ground would not stay still under my feet. I was on the point of yelling at it to stay flat when a most exquisite lady materialized at my side.

"You look like you could use a little help," she murmured, voice low. "I think I may know what you're looking for."

"No, no," I explained hastily. "I really do need to go now." _And I can't pay you either._

The lady (of sorts) wound her fingers around my arm. "You refuse the services of Maria? My girls are in tears over your steadfast gallantry, sir. Such a quality is not valued here. Have you found no one attractive enough to suit you?"

"No, that's not it. Oh dear." I fumbled for a good excuse. "I have some, ah, odd tastes. I like, um, disfigured skin. And your girls are all so lovely, it's just impossible…"

"Then I have just the lady for you. Ida!" Maria called. "You were just lamenting your own bad fortune in cutting your face last night. Here is a gentleman who likes such things."

The lady named Ida, red-blond and very shapely indeed, with a long cut down one cheek, drifted over. "It is a pleasure to meet you, sir. I have had little work tonight. You would not refuse me? It would be most impolite of you."

I was trying to figure out the flaw in her logic and wishing Holmes were here to make thinking easier, when there was a loud crash from the other end of the bar.

"That'll teach you whores to ask for more than you give!" roared a loud male voice. "You know what we do to your kind where I come from?"

"And where might that be?" called a slightly familiar voice from somewhere in the crowd. "So I can avoid it, you know." I frowned at being unable to pinpoint the source.

The man in question, who appeared to be a dock worker of some kind, didn't seem to know how to deal with this unexpected interference, and apparently decided to ignore it, turning his wrath instead on the young woman whose arm he had in a vice-like grip. "I'll show you—" I heard the crunch of bone and saw blood spurting down the girl's face.

That was enough for me. I jumped forward, swinging my cane at the docks-man. His surprise, unfortunately, in no way made up for the lack of balance induced by my injured leg and too many drinks. As I missed his head by inches, he threw his current victim aside and slammed his fist straight into my eye, opening hot liquid pain there, then under my chin, and I could feel my entire skull vibrate. I found myself wishing for Holmes for more reasons than just thinking as I became dimly aware of the bar-fight erupting around me.

As I ducked another punch, a foot connected solidly with my shoulder blade on the bad side. I yelled and dropped my cane, regretting the action the next moment. My unseen attacker grabbed my arms, but when I struggled, the pain only intensified. I forgot it the next moment as the docks-man grabbed my cane and brought it crashing down on my head once, twice—I tried to pull free and got only a kick in the shin for my trouble. A man knocked down his companion in the brawl next to ours and the limp body smacked into my chest. I dropped to my knees as the cane struck my bad shoulder hard enough to wrack my body, barely able to see through a red haze.

I was prepared to be hit even more, but it seemed my original attacker had gotten distracted somehow. That didn't help very much, however, as my cane was still out of reach and I was feeling too dizzy to get to my feet. A moment later, however, a hand grabbed my arm and pulled me up.

"Bastards, assaulting army veterans. The next thing you know, they'll be hitting little birds like me."

I coughed and stared in total astonishment. "Miss Larch?"

"That would be me. Come on, let's hop on out of here." She yanked me to my feet, alternately shoving and guiding me out of the crowd. I stumbled out the door my rescuer had put in my path, and took a welcome breath of fresh air.

"Where's Mr. Holmes got to?" demanded Miss Larch behind me. "I got the impression you usually hunted in couples."

"Good Lord, Miss Larch!" I exclaimed, attempting to focus on the wavering moon that was our client's face. "What are you doing in a place like this? Don't you realize how dangerous…"

Miss Larch pushed my cane into my hand and began steering me away from the building. "Don't worry, Dr. Watson, I am not a whore. I work here, in a manner of speaking."

"Work? What kind of work could a woman get there besides—?"

"That of her own making." Miss Larch waved to a cab. "I find unfortunately drunken people and extricate them from unfortunately drunken fights. That's not the right adjective to describe fight, is it? I was never good at grammar. Anyway, often they give me something in return, and if they don't, I tend to steal it. You don't have to worry though. You're far too kind for me to play the pickpocket with your watch, even if I didn't already have one that suited me just fine."

I blinked, too puzzled by her unusual occupation to resist as Miss Larch steered me into the cab and gave the driver unfamiliar directions. "Now, what of you?" She sat back and gave me a sharp-eyed glance which made me decidedly uncomfortable. "Why are you busy getting drunk in a whorehouse passing as a tavern? You don't seem the sort. Not to mention I thought Mr. Holmes might have need of you tonight."

"He does not need me, tonight or otherwise," I retorted, with more strength than I intended. "He will do perfectly well on his own, as he has had the pleasure of informing me."

"Oh, dear." Miss Larch peered into my face, tipping her head like a chickadee. "You've had a falling-out. Was it over the drugs? As a medical man, I suppose you don't approve."

"No," I replied tightly, then cursed myself for my unwillingness to discuss Holmes's drug problem with a stranger. He had had no problem humiliating _me_ in front of strangers. Realizing that Miss Larch's look was growing more concerned by the second, I hastily tried to distract her. "Has anyone ever told you how much you look like a bird?"

Miss Larch sat back, and I saw the laugh-crinkles appearing on her face even as she rolled her eyes. "That's the most common thing people tell me. But don't change the subject. What did Mr. Holmes say to make you so upset?"

I looked into Miss Larch's earnest face, about to refuse, and saw something of the loneliness I had been feeling for the last several hours floating behind her eyes. I knew about being alone. I had been completely so in the hospital, recovering from my wounds and fever, and in London before I met Sherlock Holmes. I found it impossible to resist that empathetic look, and I slowly extracted the story. I felt ridiculous as I told it, sure that the slight would seem too small to make a fuss over, but I saw no contempt in Miss Larch's face. When I finished, she was sitting back and her face was shadowed.

"Reckless behaviour. I hope he realizes what could happen to him if he loses you."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Sometimes," Miss Larch paused and her mouth went flat, "people who aren't used to having intimate attachments don't realize how easily they can be hurt by the people they're close to. That hurt can come out as anger, and since they have little experience with emotion, they don't realize how wounding their anger is and don't understand when others withdraw. So they end up deciding that humanity is simply overrated, and stop trying to form connections. It's something I've done myself, I'm ashamed to say." She peered out of the carriage. "Stop, driver! We're here. Dr. Watson, if you'd like, you can step into my lodgings for a moment and collect yourself before going home."

"Thank you, Miss Larch. If you had not been there tonight I think I should have ended up facedown in the mud with exactly as many bruises as I deserved for my foolishness."

"That would be none in my opinion." Miss Larch jumped down and offered me a hand. "Do you have any idea how few people step in when they see those girls getting hit? Just because I don't like to risk getting involved much myself doesn't mean I can't appreciate it when someone else does. Your gallantry might earn you some pain, but at least you're not making that poor woman feel more worthless than she already does. Come on in."

It took me several minutes to navigate the stairs, and I would have felt extremely embarrassed by the whole situation, but every time Miss Larch laughed merrily at my exploits I felt better, though I could hardly say why. At last the two of us stumbled through the door of an upstairs suite.

"Just make sure to stay quiet," whispered Miss Larch. "Normally Mrs. Forrester—that's our landlady, Mrs. Cecil Forrester—sleeps pretty soundly, but she's been in a foul temper ever since I broke that window last week. Don't ask. Plus, that man I grabbed last night is probably still in a stupor and I don't want to wake him up. He must not drink much, to get into such a state, is my reckoning."

"What man?"

"Found him last night at Lilac Maria's, asleep in an upstairs room. I could tell Maria Fairle—that's the lady in charge of the house, one of the ones who was trying to seduce you, the other's Ida Constable—was just waiting for him to wake up, and I knew he was there for an engagement party, so I just took him away. I can tell he's got money, was in the army, and is devoted to his fiancée, but I've no inkling as to who he is. Over there on the couch. I say, Dr. Watson, you're white as the proverbial sheet. Care to sit down?"

I clutched the likeness Lestrade had given me in my hand so tightly it nearly tore the paper, looking from it to the man on the couch. There was no doubt about it.

The Callie Larch court had one over Scotland Yard this time, even if she didn't know it. The man was Captain Matthew Blackwood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This author's note is kind of long, and you can skip it if you want, but if you're interested in exactly how Miss Larch was able to analyze Holmes, your explanation is here.
> 
> Despite the fact that Sherlock Holmes is technically fictional, his methods always seemed so reasonable to me that I wondered why they were never employed in day-to-day life. It turns out, actually, that there are real Holmes-type characters everywhere, in many different professions. For example, marriage psychologist and counsellor John Gottman can predict with 90% accuracy if a couple's marriage will last after listening to them talk for just fifteen minutes. Sculpture experts Federico Zeri, Evelyn Harrison, and Thomas Hoving recognized that something was wrong with a forged Greek statue the minute they looked at it. British code interceptors during World War II could listen to one message and identify the sender with nearly complete certainty. Top tennis coach Vic Braden can tell sixteen out of seventeen times when a player's going to double-fault. But it's not just experts who can do this. If you or I watch a videotape of a doctor or professor for fifteen seconds, we can tell as much about how likely it is the doctor will get sued or the students like the professor, as can people who have intimate knowledge of the subjects. Researchers who've talked to firefighters report that they can tell immediately when a building becomes unsafe. Improv actors can work together seamlessly even though they've never rehearsed what they're going to do.
> 
> What we're doing when we make these kinds of snap judgments is a mental process called 'thin-slicing.' Our unconscious minds assimilate information and analyze it much faster than our conscious minds. The thing about thin-slicing is that since the process takes place in our unconscious minds, we generally don't know why or how we make these judgments— we just do. Holmes is unusual in that he can (when talking to Watson, anyway) explain his thin-slicing techniques.
> 
> Anyway, back to Miss Larch. I based my description of her skill off the work of Silvan Tompkins and Paul Ekman, who catalogued the Facial Action Coding System, a document which details the movements of combinations of facial muscles and what each means. Both studies facial expressions for years and could do such things as look at Wanted posters and identify what crime the suspects were wanted for, catch people in lies without fail, and turn off the sound during political conventions on TV and still know what was going on.
> 
> If anyone wants to know more about thin-slicing, I highly recommend the book Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking, by Malcolm Gladwell.


	7. Piecing the Pattern Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gregson tries to do his duty and fails miserably, and Holmes shows his true colors.

"Doctor Watson? John H. Watson? Mind chasing those bats out of your attic?" Miss Larch tapped me on the shoulder. "Is that man your cousin's grandmother's daughter's son's aunt's only child?" 

"No, because that would be me—I mean, what?" I sat down hard and grabbed my head. "I'm drunk. That's the only explanation."

"You're somewhat drunk, yes," Miss Larch replied dryly, "but that's not the only explanation. Someone could have drugged you."

"Holmes isn't around. He's the only one allowed to do that. He said so."

Miss Larch considered this, the laughter-light bright in her eyes. "He did? How strange. You two do have quite the interesting friendship."

The man on the couch stirred suddenly, moaning. If he'd really been drunk the night before, I didn't envy him his head now. "Where is this? I—oh, Good Lord." He shifted positions, obviously preparing to spring if need be. "Don't move. All three of you."

"Now, now, my good man, do calm yourself, we have not kidnapped you and you may leave whenever you wish," soothed Miss Larch through a few irrepressible splurges of giggling. "Though I would advise you to not try walking quite yet. Dr. Watson and I are the only ones here, and I think I speak for the both of us when I say I'm quite curious about what you drank last night."

"What? I'm afraid I don't quite follow." The young man glanced around, obviously bewildered to find himself in no danger. "Speak in shorter sentences. How did I get here?"

"I brought you here. Dragged you out of the grip of that hawk in human shape who was attempting to seduce you. Dr. Watson, will you please inform me as to who our new acquaintance is? Curiosity killed the cat, you know, a fact that has never surprised me."

"Cat?" Our visitor blinked. "You aren't a cat, you're a bird. Cats eat birds."

"Not this bird," Miss Larch sang back. "Dr. Watson—"

"If I am not very much mistaken," I began, after a few moments of trying to follow the previous conversation and not succeeding, "this man is Captain Matthew Blackwood. Scotland Yard has been looking for him part of last night and all of today."

"What?" exclaimed Captain Blackwood. "Why? I didn't start a fight, did I? I've no happened what idea for the last hour twenty-fours."

"Is there a reward?" Miss Larch said hopefully. "I'm behind on the rent again and I have to pay for the window I broke."

I endeavoured to explain the events of the day as well as I could, considering the inebriation of myself and one member of my audience. Learning he was wanted for the murder of his father-in-law brought Captain Blackwood around very quickly, however.

"I don't know how he can be dead," the man said quietly, Miss Larch's hand on his shoulder and me on his other side. "And me, wanted for murdering him? And Ned saying I did it? None of it makes sense."

"On the contrary, it makes altogether too much sense." Miss Larch's brow was furled, and I could practically hear her brain clicking away. "I don't know this Ned Ashley character, but surely you see the common thread in all this?"

I enjoyed the feeling, however temporary, of not being alone in my confusion. Captain Blackwood frowned. "It may be the drink, but I'm afraid not."

"It's the gowns, the bridal gowns. Your fiancée had one ordered, didn't she?"

Captain Blackwood stared, but answered gamely, "Yes, with cream ribbed silk. Heavy for summer, but you know how the weather can turn at this time of year. We didn't want to take chances."

"The same as the dresses that were slashed?" I interrupted eagerly.

"Precisely." Miss Larch was on her feet and pacing, skirts whipping back and forth on her abrupt turns. "I thought at first it was some kind of company feud, you know, destroying competition and all that. But who's willing to murder to destroy a rival in the wedding-dress business, especially when the gown in question has already been paid for? No, no, it's the dresses themselves that are the issue. Which I should have realized from the start, I can be an idiot sometimes. Ribbed silk, thick ribbed silk in summer—how could I have not seen it?"

"Seen what?" demanded Captain Blackwood. "I confess; I'm quite lost here."

Ignoring him, Miss Larch stopped and whirled on me. "You said Mr. Holmes took some papers off the murdered man, whoever he might be. Did those papers look like receipts?"

"They did, but what—"

"And now he's gone off to find who else bought the gowns all by himself. What a sodden reckless thing to do!"

"What's he done now?" I asked warily. "If he's in trouble—"

"In trouble!" Miss Larch gave a shrill, squawking laugh. "In trouble? He thinks he can walk into a house filled with cutthroat smugglers unarmed and by himself, ask about the very thing they most want to keep hidden, and just dance on out, and you ask if he's in trouble? He _is_ trouble, that's what I say."

"Are these the same people who murdered an old man and his servant?" Captain Blackwood demanded.

"And Holmes is walking right into the middle of them?" Something grabbed the inside of my chest and twisted. "I've got to go after him. Now. Do you know where—"

"You can't go after him now," Miss Larch informed me. "You've half-drunk and you just got stepped on by about fifty people. Bloody inconsiderate lunatics. He could sure use you, but you'd just get hurt if you went out there now."

"I can't just let the man kill himself out there! If I don't go after him, who will?"

Captain Blackwood broke in. "Dr. Watson, was it? I've got to get home. If I've been gone all yesterday my mother must be frantic. Debbie too. If you give me a hand down the stairs and call a carriage, I think I can get home on my own."

I was about to respond when a loud knock on the door startled into shooting upright in my chair and smashing my already sore head into a shelf above me. A jar cracked and yellow powder spilled over the rug as Miss Larch hurried to the window. "That had better not be one of Kitty's suitors. That woman has positively terrible taste in men."

"Open this door in the name of the law!" shouted a vaguely familiar voice. "You are harbouring a known criminal. If you do not open this door, I shall be forced—"

I recognized the voice. "Gregson?" I joined Miss Larch and stuck my head out the window. "Inspector! For heaven's sakes, you'll wake up the whole neighbourhood."

Lestrade's rival and partner peered up nearsightedly. "Dr. Watson! Be careful, there's a dangerous man in this building! If you see—"

"Your dangerous man, if you mean Captain Blackwood, is right here," I replied, "and not attempting to hurt anyone at the moment; he seems perfectly harmless."

"Oh." Gregson's face fell momentarily; he had no doubt been hoping for a bit more of a fight. "Be careful, he might jump at you suddenly."

"Not likely!" called Captain Blackwood from the sofa. "I've got the queen of all headaches."

"What's going on?" A voice called out from the bedroom behind me. "Who's Callie Bird brought home now?"

I turned away from the window and saw Miss Mary Morstan in the doorway, wrapped in a dressing gown, and hastily averted my eyes. "Miss Morstan, I do apologize for—"

"Don't worry. Callie will be Callie, forever and ever, amen." Miss Morstan turned back to the bedroom door with a yawn. "Kitty, it's just Dr. Watson. No need to be alarmed."

"Your criticism wounds me," Miss Larch said with dignity. "Just because I brought a would-be garrotter here _once_ doesn't mean anything. And we managed to toss him out the window before he did any damage, didn't we?"

Miss Kitty Winter stumbled out of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. "Oh, hello, Dr. Watson. Our Callie Bird sending your life topsy-turvy?"

"No, but one Sherlock Holmes went flailing through it earlier, and one Tobias Gregson is threatening to finish the job," I replied.

"Open this door!" Losing us as a personal audience seemed to not have damped Gregson down much. "I order you—"

"Alright, Gregson, I'm working on it!" I turned to the three young women. "I apologize. We'll leave now."

"I'll come see you out." Miss Larch opened the door. "Go on back to sleep, girls. If we wake Mrs. Forrester up, she'll screech until we're deaf."

I offered my arm (unsteady though it was) to Captain Blackwood. "I suppose if they're going to arrest me they might as well get on with it," he said resignedly, then looked at Miss Larch. "Will you at least let them know I was here all the time? I don't doubt the law's justice, mind, but I hate to think Edward Ashley's murderer is out there walking free while I can't even comfort Debbie, much less help locate that scoundrel."

"I'm sure it'll be fine." I helped Captain Blackwood down the stairs, not sure if I was saying this more for his comfort or mine. I didn't like the idea of handing him over to the police. His quiet reaction only confirmed his innocence to me, for had he been guilty he certainly would have tried to make some escape, but I saw no other choice at the moment.

Miss Larch unlocked the door and Gregson strode in. He was attempting, I could tell, to take control of the situation, but apparently Holmes had been rubbing off on me, and I nearly laughed out loud at his strutting, which couldn't have improved his mood. "Captain Matthew Blackwood, I arrest you for the wilful murder of Edward Ashley and James Reynolds." He then turned to me, indicating Miss Larch. "And who is this?"

"A client of Holmes's. Miss Larch, this is Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard. Gregson, this is Miss Callie Larch."

"I see. Well, I'm sorry to trouble you, Miss Larch, Dr. Watson, but you've both been found in the company of a murderer—"

"Alleged murderer," I corrected.

"Well said," Miss Larch put in. "As far as I can tell, his only crime is a distinct lack of ability to hold his liquor. No offence meant, Captain Blackwood."

The Yarder's face was turning an interesting shade of eggplant. No doubt he was imagining what Lestrade would say if he ever found out that his Great Capture had involved walking through an unlocked door and arresting an unarmed man who gave no resistance. "Whatever you say. But you've been found in his company, and I am afraid I must search you both for any evidence he may have handed over to you."

Miss Larch rolled her eyes. "If you like." One of the other Yarders went to examine her coat.

"Very well, do your worst." I held out my arms to give the official better access to my pockets. "I've nothing to hide."

Undaunted, Gregson proceeded to empty my pockets of two spare cigars and some matches, my watch, a pair of Holmes's cufflinks (don't ask me, I don't know) and a torn bit of lace from the bridal shop. "Well, it appears you've nothing to worry about," he remarked, fishing one last time through my right coat pocket. "I should have known, really, that you wouldn't—" His words dropped off abruptly. "I say, what's this?"

"What's what?" I asked wearily, hoping that none of Holmes's explosive chemicals had found their merry way into my overcoat.

Gregson removed his hand from my pocket, and with it the string of pearl beads Miss Larch had seen fit to stick in my sleeve earlier. "New lady friend?" Gregson chuckled, examining the necklace. "Mr. Holmes won't be—Good Lord!" (Actually, he said something quite different, but I have taken the liberty of censoring it so as not to offend my gentle readers).

"What's wrong?" I was tired, intensely worried for Holmes, and every place the irritated clientele of Lilac Maria's had kicked, hit, or stepped on me hurt. "It's a bloody necklace!"

"A necklace?" Gregson looked as if I had begun spouting frogs from the mouth. "It's a necklace alright, _the_ necklace!"

"Not that string of the Duchess of Somerset's that went missing a few days ago?" exclaimed Captain Blackwood. "Dr. Watson, how on earth did you get that?"

"I should like to know the same thing." Gregson was no better at intimidation than he had been before, but I felt my stomach crawling all the same.

"Ah." Miss Larch raised a hand. "That would be my cue, I believe. I rather expected to be present when Dr. Watson discovered my little joke, but he and Mr. Holmes took off before I could let them know."

"Let them know what?" Gregson looked befuddled.

"That I put that pearl necklace in his sleeve. My family makes jewellery, among other things, and when a man came through Lilac Maria's with that in his pocket, I recognized its value right away. Does it really belong to the Duchess of Somerset?"

"Yes, it does, and I presume you'll understand if I have to charge you both with robbery."

Miss Larch clutched her head. "This is just not my week."

Any other day I would have considered going quietly and waiting for Holmes to sort it out. But not tonight. Tonight the only friend I had not lost in that hell called war was out fighting cutthroats, and my own idiocy in getting drunk prevented me from being beside him. "You've heard Miss Larch's explanation, Gregson, and I've reason to believe Holmes may need help. Please let me go and find him."

"That's out of the question, and I think you know it," Gregson retorted. "Turns out you've got a good alibi for this, I'll apologize willingly, but until then, I've got to do my duty. You surely know that."

"And I have to do _my_ duty. To my friend."

"Here now," Miss Larch broke in. "This isn't Dr. Watson's fault. You don't need to arrest him. And I can tell you—"

"You're in the company of a murderer with a stolen strand of pearls in your pocket—"

"Holmes is out there running dangers, and I want to help! After the help he's given the Yard, I think you owe him that much!"

"If he means so much to you," remarked one of the assistant constables snidely, "then why aren't you out there with him? I suppose you're busy looking out for that 'war wound' in your leg, or was it your shoulder? Can't even keep track, I suppose, it changes so often. Oh, well, I suppose he's such a bloody lunatic that only a broke and crippled room-mate would put up with him—"

I am not proud of what I did next. I had suffered one too many gibes that day relating to my physical impairments. I couldn't eliminate the voice inside me that told me they were true, and asked me over and over again why I had lived and others died, and why I was burdening the world with my useless self now, and what made me think I was in any way suited to be the companion of Sherlock Holmes. But regardless of that, he was the closest thing I had to a friend, and when I heard the constable's taunting insult, I snapped, smashing my cane across his jaw. I barely heard the shouts of surprise from Miss Larch, Captain Blackwood, Gregson, and the other constables as the hard wood whistled through the air, half my mind screaming in triumph at releasing my demons and the other half ringing wild alarm bells at my loss of control. But then someone—who, I don't know—cracked hard metal across my skull, and though I fought the unconsciousness to the bitter end, black still wavered and then covered my eyes.

What awoke me first was the awful taste in my mouth, as if my teeth were coated with slime. Gingerly, I lifted my head to look around.

I was lying alone in a cell—unknown to me. Had I been in my proper state of mind, it would have occurred to me that I was no doubt at Scotland Yard, being held on unconfirmed charges of jewel theft and confirmed charges of police assault, but as it was, I didn't think any of those very sensible things. Instead, my mind snapped straight back to the last time I had woken up in a strange bare room.

_It was the quiet that was most wrong. The fact that the light was so clean and bright, that was wrong too. On the battlefield there was always noise to drown out the demons in my head, never clear enough light to see reality properly. I wasn't where I belonged. I couldn't make a fist and I felt like I was breathing water and there was a wrenching, grinding feeling in my shoulder centred around a small piece of alien metal next to my subclavian artery. I couldn't feel my leg at all._

_What had I been doing? Murray had been keeping watch while I made a tourniquet for a soldier who had tumbled off his horse. I remember thinking how the vibrations of gunfire reminded me of bees. As my hands tied the tourniquet, I smiled just the smallest bit, imagining the taste of honey in my mouth. Nothing else, until I woke up in this quiet, could I remember._

_And then the pain came. Pain that made a monster of me, screaming, swearing at the people trying to help, lashing out one moment and whimpering the next for anything, anything at all that would take the pain away. And worst of all, shouting for my friends, my patients, because no one would tell me how they were, I could not see them, not used my doctor's skills to make sure each was completely alright. They thought, I suppose, that it would be better if I did not know the truth, that if they just told me everyone was fine, that would be enough. But it wasn't._

_What use was I, if I could not stop the dying? I could shut my eyes, I was given drugs, finally, to dull the pain, but no man can close his ears. I could recognize voices there—_ _whether in my fever-dreams or because some comrade of mine really did lie hurt there._

_There was someone I had to find. A name that eluded me. Being home? Something about home. And I had to find him. If it was too late—_ _no, it just wouldn't be too late, don't think about it, I'm thinking about it…The part of my mind that only remembered the war was puzzled, but the vast majority of my brain was livid with fear I only half-recognized. I screamed, and screamed, and—_

"Here! You!" A bucket of cold water was dashed over me and I was jerked from my tormented slumber. "Ain't you done nothing but make trouble for us all since you got here, talking in your sleep and wailing and all? If I don't get no rest I reckon you won't either."

As the guard stumped away, I tried confusedly to gather my thoughts. I was in London, not Afghanistan, and the man I had wanted so fervently was Holmes. I tried to put my dreadful headache out of mind (and winced at the inappropriate pun) and raise myself to my feet. But I was only able to sit up before both the shoulder I was attempting to use to push myself up and the legs I was trying to push myself up onto gave out. With the floor around me soaked and slippery, I saw little chance of standing on my own without enormous effort—and what would be the point, should I succeed? I wasn't going anywhere.

I hoped Miss Larch wasn't here. Gaol was no place for a woman, and if she'd known the pearls had belonged to the Duchess of Somerset, I doubted she would have used them as a practical joke on the friend of a detective. Her explanation was unlikely to have wholly satisfied Gregson, though.

Part of me knew that I should call back to the guard, bribe him to bring someone official so I could pay bail and get out of here—but, quite apart from the fact that I didn't even know if my bail had been set yet, or whether, with my limited funds, I could afford it, where would I go? Back to Baker Street like a kicked dog, after getting drunk, letting Holmes go off on his own, and assaulting a police official?

Desperate to keep my mind off such thoughts, I cast around for another train of thought and immediately fell on the mystery Holmes and I had been investigating. If, as seemed likely now, Captain Blackwood (I spared a moment to hope his fate had been better than mine) had not killed Mr. Edward Ashley, then who had? And who had been so nefarious as to use the Captain's gun to murder the footman, and its match to murder Zachariah Cargan? It seemed obvious now that the difficulties Holmes had pointed out earlier, such as that of the carelessly dropped gun, were blinds to lay the blame on an innocent man. But who was Captain Blackwood's enemy, his enemy who knew he owned those singular guns—but didn't know him well enough to realize he wouldn't use them to defend himself? And why would Ned Ashley want to protect that person so much that he would lie to the authorities about it?

And how did the torn wedding gowns connect to any of this? Ribbed silk, Miss Larch had said, meant for fall or winter. I had heard of cases where people were compelled by delusion to smash statues of historical figures (among other things) but one who had a grudge against ribbed silk did seem a little extreme. And besides, if it were a monomaniac who had attacked the gowns, why did someone feel it was necessary to murder him the next morning?

Why should I even bother trying to figure these things out? Despite all the voices in my head disparaging me for my self-pity, I felt frustrated tears burn behind my eyes. I couldn't deny that—

"I don't care _what_ he did, you confounded fool! You take me to Watson right now or you'll be sorry you left the Serpentine Mews!"

I knew that voice.

"Sir, I can't just let you—wait a moment. How do you know I used to work in the Mews?"

"I don't care to waste my time explaining subtleties to dullards. In my time I've met lamp-posts with better intuition. Intuition that should be letting you know exactly how bruised your face will be tomorrow if you don't tell me where you're keeping Watson!"

"Now look here, sir, you can't just go around threatening—"

"Holmes?" I actually managed to get most of the way to my feet before slipping on the wet stone. "Are you alright? What are you doing here?"

I heard rapid footsteps, a squawk from the guard, and then my friend's thin form and pale face came into view. "I came for you, of course. What kind of a question is that? And who on earth had the nerve to suggest you were involved in that jewellery robbery? That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard since Jones theorized that Ricoletti the club-foot committed suicide by shooting himself in the _back_ of the head."

He was so cursedly, blessedly, _alive,_ and the whole atmosphere of the cell and my nightmare had felt so full of death, that I reached out and grabbed his arm through the bars in the door, some emotion I didn't care to identify blooming in my chest. "I—Holmes, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

Holmes held up a hand. "No, don't. I should be apologizing to you, not the other way around. Honestly, one might think you didn't know I'd come find you!"

"I didn't."

Apart from the time Jones dismissed his theory that Ricoletti's wife had not only shot him but was in fact a psychopath who killed for pleasure, I don't think I've ever seen Sherlock Holmes look so insulted. "So my past behaviour to you has given you the impression that I would leave a friend recovering from two war wounds behind bars just for lack of bail? Watson—"

"Not that. I…" My fears had never been about him, I realized, but about me. I simply had not considered myself worthy of help. Not to mention I had spent the last years of my life supporting others, a position which does not naturally lead to asking for help for oneself. But I could not tell Holmes this, would not, risk the only real relationship I had, would not expose my friend to the madness that was only ever slightly out of sight.

Holmes's eyes were fixed upon my face, and the very-distilled scrutiny they cast made me want to move away. Which I didn't do, mostly because I would have had to let go of Holmes's arm, and at the moment I found myself unwilling to do that.

"I see my deductions were inaccurate." Holmes sighed and gripped my arm briefly before disentangling himself and calling for the guard. I was about to ask him what he meant when he turned back to me. "Yes, Watson, I will explain. But first, back to Baker Street, I think, where I hope to bribe you to rest somewhat by promising to eat."

"Do you know what happened to Miss Larch?" I asked. "I don't want—"

"She has managed to fall on her feet, Watson, fear not. Scotland Yard is perhaps not wholly incompetent, for they arrested the true thief of the Duchess's jewels this morning. Besides, it seems her friend from the Oriental ships has managed to provide a rather convincing alibi. But never mind that now. We have work to do, you and I."


	8. On Pins and Needles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Holmes explains, and Lestrade makes yet another mistake.

Holmes was as good as his word when it came to eating. Though as an impartial observer I should have deemed his meal hardly adequate, knowing him as I did, it seemed more than ample. Being Sherlock Holmes (forever and ever, amen, to borrow words from the lovely Miss Morstan) he coupled this pleasing acquiescence to my wishes with a great deal of tobacco smoke and unexpected worry over the bruises that covered most of my face. 

"I would not take offence if you did not wish to accompany me tonight, Watson," he remarked, after I had waved him back to his food for the third time. "You've had enough painful experiences in the last twenty-four hours."

"It would be far more painful for me to stay behind," I replied emphatically. "Besides," I added teasingly, "whatever explanation you brought back would not be 'luridly romantic' enough to suit me."

Holmes suddenly became very interested in his plate. "Watson…why did you think I wouldn't come for you?"

How could I explain, to a man as unique as Holmes, what it felt like to be utterly and completely replaceable, to think there was really no reason that you should live while better men died in awful ways? How could I explain, to a man with his ego and intellect, what it felt like to believe you were headed for a short and degenerate life?

"Did I hurt you?" Holmes leaned forward. "I was being reckless, I know—"

"Miss Larch told me," I said slowly, "that people who aren't used to having intimate attachments don't realize how easily they can be hurt, and so they—you—lash out. She said you don't realize how wounding your anger is." I stared at my hands. "You never meant to hurt me. I know that. But I was so worried…" My voice trailed off.

Holmes paused a moment. "Watson, what exactly happened to you after I left that crime scene? I heard some of it from Miss Larch, but not all."

I told him all I could remember of Lilac Maria's and Captain Blackwood, both of which I knew he would be keenly interested in. He nodded along with me as I gave my descriptions, and shook his head when I had finished.

"Tell me, my dear Watson, you who have known women over three continents, have you—"

"Holmes, really!"

"Have you ever met such a catalyst?"

"You mean, as in chemistry?" I asked cautiously.

"Exactly. A person with such an extraordinary ability to trigger intriguing, volatile situations. I must say, Miss Larch is one of the most effective catalysts I have ever encountered, and as my knowledge of chemistry is, as you most kindly said once, profound, I think I may be trusted to know something of the matter."

"Well, I know a catalyst just as intriguing and volatile, as it happens."

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Really? Who?"

"You, of course."

My friend laughed. "Of course. I had forgotten. You will understand my catalyzing powers being slightly dulled by the fact that until two hours ago I was still finding artificial flowers stuck in my clothing. But to other matters. If you wish to come with me this afternoon—"

"I do."

"—then I suppose I ought to tell you something of the kind of people we may be facing. I asked Lestrade to come over around noon when I went to find you. He ought to be here soon."

"So you've solved it, then?" I asked eagerly, reaching surreptitiously for my notebook and pen.

"Not just yet. I have set the nets, and they are closing, but until we have our man, or rather our man and our woman, the case will not be complete."

"Woman?" I frowned. "You don't mean that Miss Larch—"

Holmes snorted. "No, if my suspicions are correct, it is a very different sort of woman who will be falling into our trap."

"But you do believe the two cases to be connected?"

"Without a doubt." Holmes lit his pipe and strolled over to sit on the sofa beside my chair. "My small excursion of last night confirmed that." I prepared to take notes as my friend sent knots of tobacco smoke floating around his head.

"As you may have concluded, the papers we found in the pocket of Zachariah Cargan, who, by the way, undoubtedly vandalized the bridal shop, were the addresses of the other women who had purchased and picked up dresses of ribbed silk. This led me to conclude what I should have realized as soon as Miss Larch told us the dresses were made and ordered, but I may be excused some of my folly, as I am not overly familiar with fabrics, and so missed the significance of the ribbed silk. Perhaps I should write a monogram on it, though I doubt it will get much more attention than my writings on the use of bouquets in ciphers."

"Perhaps you should add some romanticism," I suggested slyly. "That might make them more accessible to the great unobservant public."

Holmes stretched his legs toward our fire. "That, my dear Watson, is your department. Despite my clumsiness at first, I was able to correct my mistake quite promptly. Ribbed silk, as you no doubt observed, is a thick and textured material, and those particular dresses were double-layered. It is clear, therefore, that when the unfortunate Cargan slashed those wedding dresses, and then went after the purchased ones when he failed to get what he wanted, he was looking for something hidden between the layers of cloth."

"What? Do you know?"

"Unfortunately, not yet. My primary theory is that some document has been concealed in one of the dresses. The connection between our two cases was first made clear by the murder of Cargan using Captain Blackwood's gun, the fact that Miss Deborah Ashley was one of those who purchased a cream ribbed silk dress, and that sprig of lilac that was stuck to your shoe."

"Oh, yes, the lilac. But I fail to see—"

"Lilac, my dear Watson. _Lilac Maria's._ "

I nearly dropped my pen. "Of course! Why didn't I realize? Do you have a theory as to how they are connected?"

"I do. It was obvious from the first that Captain Blackwood did not kill Edward Ashley or the footman. There were simply too many holes in Ned Ashley's story. He is obviously shielding whoever did murder them. Who that might be, I do not yet know. But it is significant that Mr. Ashley went to Lilac Maria's on excellent terms with his sister's fiancé and his father, and yet left it willing to blame the former for the death of the latter. Someone in Lilac Maria's hatched that plot, and as the only permanent residents of that house are female, it is most likely a woman who conspired with Mr. Ashley. Meanwhile, someone else at Lilac Maria's contrived to keep Captain Blackwood there so he could be blamed for the murder."

"Sound enough," I said, "but assuming the same people are behind it all, if their goal was the murder of Edward Ashley, why did they first vandalize the bridal shop?"

"I doubt they have only one goal, my dear Watson. And I suspect they wished first to ascertain if the dresses had not yet been sent on. They would not desire to carry them away and risk incrimination had the dresses not contained what they wanted. The use of the penknife, as opposed to something less delicate, confirms the theory that they were searching for something."

"Wait a moment." Holmes paused and looked at me inquiringly. "I met someone at Lilac Maria's last night with a cut on her cheek. I'm not sure if there's a connection, but it _looked_ like the cut had been made—"

"With a penknife!" Holmes was on his feet in a moment and pacing. "Goodness, that was well-observed, Watson! Well, several things are much clearer now."

"Such as what?" I took a moment to wonder why so many of my associates were always three steps ahead of the rest of the average room.

"Such as what a woman from Lilac Maria's was doing in the bridal shop that night. You no doubt observed the storage door Miss Larch pointed out to us. Though she claimed the hallway was in disuse, it had been recently dusted. I can only believe that the lady who entered that way sought to hide the tracks she left in the dust—and in my opinion it _would_ take a lady to think of a thing like that. So the sequence of events falls into place. Zachariah Cargan enters the bridal shop with a copy of the key, with shoes he stole from a drunken tramp. He searches out the addresses and rips them from the books. Then he locates the dresses and slashes them open. At that point or thereabouts, he is interrupted by our unknown lady. She confronts him and he slashes out at her with his penknife. The scuffle ends in them both fleeing, the lady out the corridor and Cargan out the door, taking the shoes which he then returns to the drunkard in the hopes of throwing suspicion on him. Do I make myself clear?"

"Undoubtedly," I replied, "but I still am not sure how we apprehend them."

"All in good time, Watson, all in good time. I thought it necessary to warn you only because it is entirely possible that we will be dealing with _two_ sets of criminals, each intent on eliminating the other in order to get at whatever prize is hidden in that dress. That could make things either less or more dangerous for us." Holmes sighed. "And now I suppose you wish to know where I went last night."

"Very much," I replied, hiding my shock that he brought the matter up himself.

"I went, as you may have ascertained, to visit the houses of those patrons who purchased the ribbed silk dresses, in order to determine where the criminals might strike next. There were three houses in all. My first visit was largely unexceptional; a trip to the house of Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Rightcliffe, whose daughter will be getting married later this summer. There I discovered that her wedding dress had been slit apart earlier the same night of the murders. Not knowing what we do, they had put it down to the jealousy of an old sweetheart of the girl's, and decided to say nothing in order to save her reputation, as the bridegroom is supposedly notoriously superstitious. Upon examining the dress I was able to ascertain that it had in fact been slit apart with a pair of very sharp nail-scissors—a tool any lady might be expected to carry, but specially equipped for the purpose."

"The lady at Lilac Maria's, naturally."

"Naturally." Holmes gazed at his pipe. "And then I did something rather stupid, an odd error of this mechanism I call a brain that I expect and hope will not be repeated. I went to the next address completely unaccompanied and unarmed, through a part of London extremely unlikely to order expensive wedding dresses for their own sake."

"Why were they?"

"Well, Watson, in hindsight it seems simple, I quite wonder I did not see it before. Whoever wants whatever is inside that dress obviously has an ally at the company that makes the ribbed silk gowns, who concealed whatever-it-was within one of the gowns, intending to send it on to his or her friend. However, an error occurred at our local bridal shop, and the wrong dress was sent to our plotters. Their only alternative was to search through all the remaining dresses in an attempt to find the one that went astray. I won't bother you with the details of what happened when I turned up at their little residence, except to say that if it were not for a convenient gap in the fence and a busy pub one street over to get lost in, I might very well be in an even more ragged condition than you at the present."

"But Holmes, if you know where their hideout is, should we not have the police arrest them?"

Holmes shook his head. "Setting aside the police's general idiocy, I doubt very much that our criminals are still there, after I interrupted them last night. No, Watson, it is elsewhere we must go." He paused a moment. "What is most worrying is that for the life of me I cannot identify the yellow-orange powder that has appeared at both murder scenes. It is too monstrous a coincidence to expect—wait a moment. What is that on your sleeve?"

"Where?"

"Right here. Watson, how on earth did _you_ get that yellow powder on you?"

I frowned a moment. "I don't remember. It might have been in Miss Larch's rooms."

"This is extremely annoying. Not to mention disturbing, when we have last seen that substance on two murdered men. Are you sure you had better not stay here?"

"Holmes, I've told you at least twice that I'm coming. You're not going to scare me again for at _least_ forty-eight hours."

Our bell rang with an authoritative clang and a moment later we heard Lestrade's voice on the stairs. Mrs. Hudson soon showed the little professional into our sitting room, where he demanded the promised location of the murderer of Mr. Ashley and the footman, "with none of your foolery, Mr. Holmes, because I have a headache today."

"Criminals do not wait for aspirin, Lestrade," my friend replied brightly. "At least, none but the drug-smugglers and poisoners."

"Come now, Mr. Holmes, who poisons people with medicine?"

"I could name a score of cases. The North Abbey poisoning case, for example, or that string of murders in Kent in '53, or the –"

"Very well, very well, just get me that murderer! Good Lord, you would try the patience of a saint."

"Merely allow me to try the patience of several sinners at precisely four o'clock today, and I shall be quite satisfied." Holmes had gotten his coat and hat and now picked up his heavy stick. "Watson, your revolver would not be amiss, I think. Now, let us be off to visit some old friends."

"Friends?" I asked curiously. "You mean you know these people?"

"Of course, and so do you." Holmes opened the door with a flourish. "Though I fear we shall disturb premarital bliss, we shall lay this trap in the house of George Alder and his fiancée Serena Nelson."

Here, I would like to make a small addendum: If the now-married Mrs. Serena Alder, née Nelson, ever reads this account, I wish to assure her that I am in no way responsible for what happened next.

We spent the short carriage drive to the Nelson house in silence, as Holmes refused to talk at all if he couldn't speak about his proposed monogram on cloth types, and Lestrade couldn't listen to that without attempting to strangle him. Once out, however, my friend's attention was entirely focused on the matter at hand.

"There are two times of day optimal for house burglary," he remarked as we climbed from the carriage and paid the driver. "One is between the hours of one and four in the morning, when everyone is asleep. The other is at four in the afternoon when everyone is napping or taking tea. Though in the day one cannot get through upper windows on ladders, small noises and people moving about are far less likely to attract attention. Few people sleep a wink the night before a wedding, as our criminals are probably aware, so this is their best opportunity."

"I hope you told these people we were coming," Lestrade said dubiously. "I doubt they'll take kindly to us occupying the premises otherwise."

"I telegrammed ahead. They were only too glad to return a small favour I had done for them," replied Holmes as he rang the bell.

Miss Serena Nelson was delighted to see us, and assured us that her fiancé would be as well, when he returned from getting their marriage license. Holmes politely declined to wait, and we were shown into Miss Nelson's room, where a splendid wedding gown of cream ribbed silk was laid out across the bed.

"I arranged it just as you told me, Mr. Holmes," Miss Nelson said anxiously. "Are you sure it will not be damaged?"

Holmes smiled dartingly. "We are here exclusively to prevent that, Miss Nelson."

"We're here to capture a murderer," muttered Lestrade, but fortunately our hostess didn't hear him.

"Now, I know you must be very busy, so I would suggest proceeding to your tea. I would merely ask you to go about your business normally, and you'll hardly know we're here."

"If only that were true," I murmured as Miss Nelson left the room. "Holmes, what—"

"Quickly, Lestrade, you're the smallest. Under the bed with you."

"Mr. Holmes, this is really—"

Holmes ignored the man's protests. "Watson, you and I behind that curtain. No one reveal themselves until I signal you to do so."

"Why do I have to be under the bed?" Lestrade complained. "I'm allergic to dust mites."

"Because I require freedom of movement to wield this stick, and Watson's bad shoulder is bothering him today. Now do be quiet."

Some might believe that a sunlit room at noon with a wedding gown on the bed nearby would not exactly be conducive to tension, but the pleasant atmosphere surrounding us only served to highlight the horror of the three murders we had witnessed in the last forty-eight hours, and the possible consequences if our trap did not apprehend the killers. And the possible consequences if we _did_ were almost as worrying, as I and my only friend would be confronting a dangerous murderer at close quarters. The idea grated on my nerves, and I was just clenching my teeth and telling myself I had to bear it when Holmes's grip closed over my arm like pliers, and I heard nearly silent footsteps in the hall. I could feel Holmes holding his breath and hardly dare to take in air myself for fear of alerting our adversary.

The door slipped open almost noiselessly, and a figure in a housemaid's dress slid like a snake towards the wedding dress on the bed. I cut my eyes towards Holmes to see if he would raise the alarm, but before I had time to do more, the sound of running footsteps echoed through the outside hall and the door crashed open.

"You stop right there, Ida Constable," said Mr. Ned Ashley, twitching like a spider with smallpox. I only just managed to swallow my gasp. "I was promised half of what's in that gown, and I'm going to have it."

Ida Constable's lip curled up in a sneer, twisting the cut on her face nastily. "I reckon you was promised it alright, promised it by that bloody fool Zachariah Cargan. Honour among thieves is a myth, rich boy."

"Get away from that dress, or I'll—I'll shoot you! I can do it!" Light glinted off metal and Holmes's hand tightened around my arm.

"I've got a right to whatever I can lay my hands on and I ain't got no confidence in your aim. Where'd you pick up that piece anyway, at a Covent Garden flea market?"

"You think I won't do it! Well, I can and I will! I shot Cargan and I'll shoot you too, you jumped-up whore!"

"Keep your mouth shut, you confounded idiot!" hissed Miss Constable. "This ain't no graveyard, someone's going to hear you!"

I heard the click of a pistol being cocked. "I think," Lestrade said, "that they already have."

"No, you fool!" Holmes darted out from behind the curtain just as Lestrade's gun went off, the bullet burying itself in the wall due to his odd angle under the bed. The next moment he was howling and clutching his throat as Miss Constable stood over him, a pair of bloody nail scissors glittering in her hand.

There was a crack as Sherlock Holmes lobbed his stick across her head from behind, sending her toppling to the floor. Half a second later, the cold snick of a gun rang in my ears, sending my heart straight into my mouth. I pitched myself forward and grabbed Holmes around the knees, and we both crashed down in a heap. Ned Ashley's shot pierced the window with a tinkle of broken glass, and I heard the door slam behind him.

"Watson!" Holmes yanked himself out from under me and grabbed my arms. "Did he hit you?" I opened my mouth to reply, but the sound of the gunshot had sent shock waves through my brain and, now that we were out of danger, I had commenced to trembling so violently I didn't trust my voice. Holmes shook me. "Watson? Watson! Talk to me! Are you alright?"

I finally managed to nod, and then gasped out, "You?"

"I'm fine, fine. Listen, Watson, never get between me and a gun again, do you hear me? You could have been killed. I _order_ you never to do that again!"

I stared at my friend, puzzled. "So I could have been killed. Does it matter?"

"Does it…" Holmes's voice grew strangled and his hands on my arms got tighter. "Who on earth have you been talking to? I'd like to know because you obviously didn't ask me. It matters a great deal to _me_ whether you live or die, so forgive my selfishness in asking you not to throw yourself in front of guns!"

Lestrade gave a rough gasp of pain from the floor, and I hurried over him on my still-shaky legs. Holmes secured the unconscious Miss Constable with Lestrade's handcuffs and I bent over said official, examining the wound in his neck.

"This came close to the jugular vein. He needs stitches. I think I left my doctor's bag downstairs."

"Right, then I'll…I'll just…oh." Holmes's voice trailed off.

"Looking for someone?" Miss Larch asked, eyelashes quivering like mirthful butterflies as she gripped the squawking and gun-free Ned Ashley in a very effective arm-lock. "Because I think I found him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback of any kind is greatly appreciated.


	9. Double-Layered Silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which many questions are answered.

I will spare my readers the details of the garbled death threats Ned Ashley threw at all four of us as I stitched up the cut in Lestrade's neck, as so much of it would have to be censored as to leave little actual content. Miss Larch seemed highly unconcerned by the whole process, but when Serena Nelson and two of her bridesmaids came running up to investigate the source of our shouts, she ordered him to "be quiet, or you'll offend the ladies," compounding the threat with a twist of his now-handcuffed arms. 

Finishing the stitches, I examined the bruise on Lestrade's head from his unexpected tussle and the source of the unconsciousness he'd succumbed to as I stitched up his throat. "This isn't serious; he'll be fine as long as he takes it easy for a few weeks and doesn't pull out the stitches. Hand me those smelling salts in my bag, will you, Holmes?"

"I know you!" Ida Constable had recovered from her fall but so far had said little of interest apart from several swear words I wasn't even entirely sure how to define. "You're that bird-ish woman who's always stirring things up around Maria's place. What are you doing here?"

"I should like to know the same thing," Sherlock Holmes remarked as he passed me the smelling salts. "Your presence and its consequences are most welcome, but how did you know where we were?"

Miss Larch shrugged. Ned Ashley unsuccessfully tried to take advantage of the movement and wrench away. "I knew where the dresses had gone, and that you'd probably be here today, as you checked everywhere else last night. I'll own up to a great deal of interest about your behaviour in a crisis, and when a man with a gun comes barrelling down the stairs, well, I generally assume he's up to no good."

"You were perfectly right. This man, if I am not mistaken, is the murderer of Edward Ashley, and very possibly of his footman as well."

"I didn't kill my father," cried Ned Ashley. "Zachariah Cargan did it! I only looked!"

"And that makes you so much less culpable, I'm sure," retorted Miss Larch scornfully. "So your father fell down dead just because you stood around _looking_ so hard?"

"I didn't kill Reynolds!"

"You might want to put down the gun that he was shot with first," Holmes said dryly. "Also the same gun that killed Zachariah Cargan early yesterday morning."

"Now, Mr. Holmes, that's not a fair statement to make," Miss Larch told him. "He can't put the gun down. I already took it away."

"And where is it now?" demanded Lestrade, who had recovered enough in the interim to at least attempt to take charge.

"Rusticating in a bouquet of pansies downstairs. Miss Nelson, you might want to have someone remove it before your wedding tomorrow."

Miss Nelson was on the more frantic side of preoccupied, as one of her bridesmaids was in hysterics. I handed our hostess the smelling salts. "Do you have a room where we can secure these two until we can call the Yard for reinforcements? No, Lestrade, don't move. If those stitches come out you're in trouble."

The obliging bride-to-be showed us to one of the bare cellars, where Holmes secured the two criminals and locked the door. I was forced to practically sit on Lestrade to prevent him from trying to help. And let me just take this opportunity to assure everyone involved that Mr. Alder and Miss Nelson received a _very_ expensive present on their wedding day from Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.

My friend, only slightly the worse for wear for his exertions, examined the wedding gown on the bed. "Miss Larch, if you will obligingly use your seamstress skills, we shall soon see exactly what is hidden in that dress."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes." Miss Larch retrieved a small seam-ripper from a sewing basket on a nearby bureau. "But if I may, it's already quite obvious what it contains. In fact, there's some on Dr. Watson's sleeve right now."

Holmes blinked. "Yellow powder?"

Miss Larch sighed. "Smell it. I think you'll find this gown smells the same."

My companion sniffed obligingly. "The scent's the same, but I don't recognize—"

"Of course you don't, oh most masculine-minded of detectives." Miss Larch's eyebrows spoke volumes as she raised them to the sky. "Never did much fine cooking, did you? Now, your landlady might recognize the smell of saffron."

_"Saffron?"_ Lestrade's tone was only one short of what he might have used to describe pickled herring-flavoured tea. "You mean people are willing to commit three murders and attempt two more, infiltrate a bridal company, break into goodness knows how many houses, and effectively tear each other to bits just to get a hold of _saffron?"_

Miss Larch opened a tiny slit in the hem of the gown and removed a small yellow spur, like one might find on the inside of a crocus. "Just because it isn't shiny and covered with gems doesn't mean it isn't valuable. This stuff is actually the stigmas of saffron crocuses. You need an incredibly amount of land just to get enough flowers to grow an ounce of it." She glanced over the gown. "Judging from the weight, I expect this dress probably contains five or six pounds. No one expects a wedding gown to be light-weight. They could have hidden whatever they wanted. If you include the train there might even be ten pounds in here."

"She's right, Lestrade," Holmes informed him. "Saffron is worth its weight in gold, and the price has gone up recently. Our friends downstairs were playing for high stakes."

"Given enough time, I believe I can extract it all without harming the dress too much," Miss Larch said cheerfully. "Not by tomorrow, though. I suppose Miss Nelson will just have to wear an incredibly valuable wedding dress. Then I'll take it apart, re-sew it, and give it back to her."

"So Miss Constable was the person Ned Ashley met at Lilac Maria's," I mused.

"I am inclined to think now," Holmes replied, "that his plot must have been with Cargan, and laid for much longer than that evening, or he would not have concocted the plan so far as to steal Captain Blackwood's pistols to use. As said gentleman never used those particular guns he could have gone quite a long time without realizing they were missing. If I am not mistaken, Ned Ashley knew Cargan through his father's India connections. The man is an expert in spices, which is probably how he arranged the saffron to be smuggled through the wedding gown."

"How do you know, then, that it was he, and not Cargan, who killed Edward Ashley and the footman?"

Holmes glanced at the wet gun on the bed, which Miss Larch had fished out of the pansies on the way back up the stairs. "Now that Cargan is dead we may never know who killed the footman. But since Edward Ashley was strangled…unless a man is very weak or his assailant very strong, it is difficult to achieved death by strangulation without even a sound if the target is conscious, as the lit candle on Ashley's bed shows he was. It is far more likely to have been the man's son who murdered him, as only his children knew he suffered from asthma and would find it hard to breathe if seriously shocked. Besides, why would Cargan wish to throw suspicion on Captain Blackwood, when he does not know the man?"

I shuddered. "I didn't like Ned Ashley, but I had no idea he was such a monster as that."

"It must've been him who shot Cargan too," Miss Larch remarked thoughtfully. "I bet Cargan was trying to blackmail him out of his share of the saffron money by threatening to tell the Yard he killed his father. Ashley probably panicked, not being used to crime and all, and shot him. I guess it was the lilac on Dr. Watson's shoe that let you know Ida had broken into the shop?"

"That it was." Holmes fiddled with a bit of saffron. "If Cargan and Ashley met regularly to plot in Lilac Maria's, they would need a secure room. I would guess they bought Miss Constable's silence with an offer to cut her in on the dress. But being used to the ways of criminals, she inferred they had no intention of giving her any money, and so went after the saffron herself."

"Saffron," muttered Lestrade. "I still can't believe they were willing to risk their lives for saffron."

"Some would think it odd, no doubt," Holmes agreed, eyes shadowed. He glanced at me. "But I expect they would find it just as odd that some people are willing to risk their lives for a friend."

"Well, hypothetically, I should think the friend in question would do the same for them," Miss Larch called from the sewing basket, where she was searching for thread to mend the small cut she had made in the dress. "What do you think, Mr. Holmes?"

"I think," said Sherlock Holmes, his eyes meeting mine, "that you are entirely correct."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based my estimate of the cost of saffron off today’s prices, as it cost as much if not more back then. High-quality saffron sells for about $17.95 an ounce, so ten pounds would be worth approximately eleven thousand dollars. Feedback of any kind is greatly appreciated.


	10. Mending the Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a doctor calls on Watson, and Holmes uses his deductive skills for something more than his work.

"So our bird-like client has money to pay for that broken window after all, thanks to the reward money from the saffron and that infuriating necklace," remarked Holmes, stretching out on the sofa before the fire. 

"I must say, it was a relief to me to know she didn't mean to implicate me with those pearls." I shook my head. "It's an odd method of payment for consultation, but she did expect to have the chance to tell me what she'd done."

"Before I scared her off with my talk about genuine blood," Holmes chuckled. "She could have just said she was attempting to hide the saffron Cargan dropped on the floor, seeing as she didn't want to be implicated for having a little stale saffron in her own kitchen. Which she doesn't have anymore, seeing as you broke her jar of it."

We fell into companionable silence, watching the fire. I let my thoughts drift from our former client to Lestrade (still in bed a week later, much to his chagrin and Gregson's delight), then to Captain Matthew Blackwood and Deborah Ashley, who had postponed their wedding due to mourning but had promised us an invitation to their eventual marriage (I already despaired of getting Holmes to that event).

"If I ever publish this," I said finally. "Do I have your permission to mention that you're terrified of bridal shops?"

"I am not _terrified_ of bridal shops. Merely somewhat intimidated." Holmes examined his pipe. "Watson—"

"Yes?"

"Never mind."

Our bell rang and Holmes looked at me questioningly. "Did anyone make an appointment to see you?"

"I don't think so, unless, of course…" My voice trailed off as I peered out the window. Dr. James Emerson. I had forgotten, in all the excitement of the case, that he had promised to call.

I could sense Holmes behind me, looking over my shoulder and down into the street. "A well-to-do doctor who tends to treat wealthy patients. His scissors are blunt, his assistant recently broke his stethoscope, and he is having an affair with his wife's housemaid. And he sighs too much."

"My dear Holmes!"

"It is all quite elementary. I would explain it to you, but you should probably answer the door. He's here for you, but you aren't happy to see him."

I shook my head. "I had better, all the same. He certainly _does_ sigh too much."

In a few minutes, Dr. Emerson was installed on the sofa, and Holmes was blowing smoke from his pipe into the man's face. "I'll go to my room, Watson, to give you and this, ah, _doctor_ here, your privacy." He paused. "Call me if you need anything." The door shut.

"What a strange fellow." Dr. Emerson gave the door a look. "Well, at any rate. Dr. Watson." He smiled at me with that professional smile that stretches the mouth more than it conveys any sense of happiness. "How are you feeling?"

"A bit better, as a matter of fact." I _had_ noticed some small improvement, in that I found myself jumping at small noises less frequently, and my episodes of depression were a little rarer. I thought perhaps it was due to the fact that Holmes had proved he could come home safely, but at any rate, my other symptoms were no better.

"Hmm. Are you having nightmares still? Flashbacks?"

_Yes, of course I am. I doubt I will ever completely stop._ I sat stiffly in my chair and did not answer.

Dr. Emerson took my silence for consent. "I hoped the prescription I gave you last time would be of help. But the drugs don't work in every case."

"Actually," I took a breath, "I haven't been taking those drugs. I don't think they're going to help me."

"What are you talking about?"

"I haven't been taking the opium. Or the morphine. I could get addicted, and that would make things worse."

Dr. Emerson gave me a patronizing smile. "Dr. Watson, you don't understand. Getting addicted, or not, is hardly of consequence for you now."

"I _know_ my health doesn't matter in the long run," I snapped. "You've made that abundantly clear, and I don't care. You can take the prescriptions back, because I'm never going to use them. There's cocaine in these rooms already. I won't tempt my friend with even more drugs."

Dr. Emerson sighed. _I really want to tell him how annoying that is. I'd wager Holmes wouldn't hesitate to say it._ "Dr. Watson. Listen to me. If you do not take those drugs, the nightmares and flashbacks will only get worse, and your wounds will continue to act up. You are a veteran, and you deserve some comfort."

"So I deserve to die in a drug-induced haze, do I? That's very thoughtful of you, but I think I'd rather be conscious."

He sighed. "You persist in misunderstanding me. Or do you not realize that you are not the only person in question here. Do you truly wish to be a burden on others for the rest of your life? Always subjecting a wife or room-mate or landlord to your nightmares? Always living off the state's money? You could prevent such things by simple taking a small dose from those prescriptions. I cannot in good conscience allow you to be such a drain on society when I can stop it."

"Doctor, I can't—" I closed my mouth. My voice was choked with tears. Why did he have to put it that way? Why did—

"If you'll excuse my rudeness, _Dr._ Emerson," drawled Holmes from his bedroom doorway. "If you are truly so concerned, let me reassure you. My friend may _burden_ me with his company, whether he has nightmares and flashbacks or not, for as long as there is need. And if I _ever_ find a prescription for opium in these rooms, I will burn it. Now get out."

Dr. Emerson gripped the arm of the sofa. "And who are you that you dare to speak to me like that?"

"I am someone who wants the best for Watson. That's more than a charlatan like you can say. Now, I would advise that you go home, sharpen your scissors, and reprimand your assistant, or I may have to tell your wife what you are doing with the housemaid."

Emerson gasped. It was an improvement over sighing. "How on earth—"

"To which of my deductions do you refer?" inquired Holmes. "Your nails have been cut with blunt scissors, your stethoscope has been broken by a left-handed man while you are right-handed, and your shoes are unusually well-shined but you have been brushing your own hat. You are also an idiot. Get out."

"Dr. Watson!" Emerson whirled on me. "How can you let this man—"

I said the words I had been longing to utter since the beginning of our appointment. "You sigh too much."

Emerson, after gaping at the two of us for nearly fifteen seconds, got out of our apartment and into a cab faster than Holmes confronted with a wedding ring and a bouquet of artificial flowers.

The next day, I found the following letter on my desk:

_My dear Watson,_

_No doubt I should be telling you this in person, but as I once told you, to exaggerate one's abilities is as great an error as false modesty. I entertained no delusions about being able to say what I wish to say properly, aloud. Someday I hope to be able to deliver apologies in person, but not yet._

_You never asked me how I knew where you were that night I so foolishly went off on my own, though I knew you were curious. Likewise, I have not asked you why you attacked the official that night. I suspected you would keep silent rather than tell me the truth, so I asked Miss Larch, and she explained._

Then he knew. I nearly let the letter slide to the floor. How could I face my friend now? But my curiosity was stronger than my shame, and I continued to read.

_Perhaps you will be ashamed that I know this. Please have no fears that I hold any of it against you. You would have to do a great deal more to lose the respect I hold for you, even if I had no idea of the reasons for your reaction._

_My dear Watson, I knew you had just come back from a horrifying war, I knew your wounds pained you still, I knew you had nightmares. But I failed to see that all these things might make you feel so vulnerable to my criticism. What I said, and what the officials said to you later, would have been intolerable in any case, but it was even more so when one takes into account your current state._

_I searched through your papers and found the prescriptions given to you by that quack of a physician you went to see the day before this case came into our lives. I have thrown them away. I am in hopes that you will accept my help—_ _as unpractised as I am in such things—_ _instead of drugging yourself to an early death. You deserve better than that._

_Please forgive me for my lack of knowledge about grief. I assure you I am willing to learn how to help you. If you will let me._

_Sherlock Holmes_

I sat for a very long time with that letter in my hand. Then I reached for pen, ink, and paper, and wrote one of the shortest and most important stories I would ever put to paper.

_My dear Holmes,_

_I will be honoured to accept your help._

_—_ _Watson_

**Fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback of any kind makes me very happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Flashbacks, nightmares, and Watson’s other problems as recorded here are classic symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, though that particular term was not coined until after World War II. A description of a patient addicted to opium can be found in ‘The Man with the Twisted Lip.’


End file.
